


What You Wish For

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Multi, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Snuff, Spark Bond, Spark Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead End wants to know what it's like to die. Vortex offers to help, giving him access to his collection of fully immersive home-made snuff movies. But once is not enough, and as Vortex enables Dead End's descent into addiction it has repercussions for both their teams.  </p><p>Contains major character death, minor character and OC death, snuff, rape, graphic violence, consent issues, manipulation, in-team violence, mixed robot porn (sparks, sticky, p’n’p, tactile), dystopic future, and spark bonding. Also contains a vast quantity of fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I can show you death," Vortex whispered, swinging himself into the seat beside Dead End. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Dead End froze, hands locked around his ration. "I see death every day," he replied.

"Sure you do," Vortex said. "But I said show, not see. There's a difference."

Dead End glanced around the crowded mess hall; no team, no backup. Great. "Are you inebriated?"

Vortex smirked and nudged Dead End's cube with a knuckle. "I heard you were caught hacking Hook's files. Now what were the search terms? Terminal illness, spark failure, euthanasia."

"Shut up," Dead End snapped.

“I’m not mocking you,” Vortex said. He leaned in; on the other side of the room Brawl caught his eye and snickered. "I want to help."

"Why would I be so stupid as to believe that?" Dead End countered, forcing himself to look the Combaticon directly in the visor. Too close, oh scrap he was too close. Dead End set his jaw, suddenly aware of every puff of air from his vents.

"But you're not stupid," Vortex whispered. "Another few seconds at that console and you'd have had everything you were after."

"Then what-" Dead End managed to stop himself. "No, this is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is that Brawl stumbled across you before you had what you needed."

Dead End focused on slowing his vents. Vortex was so close he could feel the tingle of his energy field. "Stop trying to flatter me."

"Oh but I'm not." Vortex edged his hand closer, brushing Dead End's knuckle. "If I wanted to flatter you I'd talk about your finish, I'd tell you how much brighter you shine than anyone else, how smooth you look."

"You can't talk me into... into... You're not charming you know."

Vortex laughed, and Dead End cringed. Now people were looking again, and he could guess what they were thinking. 

"What's so funny?" he hissed.

"I'm not trying to trick you into a frag," Vortex said, serious again. "I want to help you. I want to see you find what you've been searching for."

"You don't know what I've been searching for," Dead End countered.

"Don't I?" Vortex smirked and stood. "If you change your mind you know where to find me."

Dead End stared at the table until Vortex had gone. 

* * *

Dead End was halfway back to his bunk when he met Breakdown coming the other way. 

“Turn around,” Breakdown hissed. “Follow me. Do _not_ look back, turn off your comms.”

“Why?” Dead End spun on his heel, running a few paces to catch up with his teammate. “What’s going on?”

“Motormaster. Team bonding.”

“Ah. And you’re running away?” 

“I can’t stand it!” Breakdown snapped. He cringed, ducking his head between his shoulders. “He gets in my head, he _feels_ things.”

“I think that’s how a gestalt is supposed to work,” Dead End said. “When we combine-”

“That’s different!” Breakdown snarled. He revved his engine, and the lights flickered. “He can’t see me then, he can’t _look_ at me. Not like that, like he knows what I’m thinking.”

“He’s our commander,” Dead End said. “There’s no escape.”

“Not for you,” Breakdown spat. “You’re going back to him, aren’t you? You know he wants to try interfacing again?”

Dead End sighed. “Yes,” he said, slowing to a stop, “I’m going back. You’re only delaying the inevitable.”

Breakdown spun around, optics narrowed and engine growling just loud enough to rattle Dead End’s armour. “You think he’s right,” he accused. “You agree with him!”

“I don’t think it matters,” Dead End replied. “He’ll probably fail, but it won’t make any difference. We’re still at war; statistically speaking we’re already dead.”

Breakdown began to back away. “We’re not dead yet,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You didn’t see me, OK?”

“OK,” Dead End agreed, and turned back the way he’d come. 

Motormaster was waiting in the Stunticon rec room. Drag Strip sat sullen and scuffed in one corner, Wildrider fidgeted in another. 

“Close the door,” Motormaster said. “Sit down.”

There was no point in arguing. Dead End pulled up a chair, catching Drag Strip’s eye. The racer rolled his optics and sneered, flicking his thumb in accusation at their silently fuming teammate. 

“They are confined to quarters,” Motormaster said. “You will not speak to them, you will not grant their requests. You will ignore them for the duration of their punishment.”

“Which is?” Dead End asked. 

Motormaster frowned. “Don’t interrupt me.” He picked up a data pad and began to scroll through it. “They broke the rules, they have to suffer the consequences.” He looked up, meeting Dead End’s eye. “You were seen talking to a Combaticon.”

Dead End shrugged; no reason to deny it. 

“What did he want?”

“To goad me,” Dead End responded. “I wasn’t paying that much attention.”

“ _Well you should!_ ” Motormaster roared. “The Combaticons are not our colleagues. They are our competition. Do you understand?”

“I don’t see,” Dead End began, but Motormaster slammed the datapad onto the table so hard the glass cracked. 

“You don’t see?” He growled, and despite that he lacked Breakdown’s special talent, the rumble of his engine still carried a threat. “What don’t you see? The energon crisis? The spare parts shortage? Do you think that when the Prime died his followers stopped fighting? Did the humans just lay down and let us roll right over them? Do you think we don’t need training or equipment or supplies? That we don’t need Menasor?”

“No… no.” Dead End stared at his knees. 

“The Combaticons are our rivals,” Motormaster said. “You’re not slow clocked, you should be able to grasp that.” He sighed, and stood. “Drag Strip, Wildrider, you will go to your respective rooms and stay there. _Now_.”

Dead End continued to look at his knees while his teammates slunk out of the room; they were speckled with soot, and there was a smear on his right thigh. 

“I’m scheduling some team building time,” Motormaster said. 

“You mean interfacing, I suppose,” Dead End said. 

Motormaster looked for a moment as though he’d sit back down, but instead he balled his fists and stayed standing. “Among other things.” He coughed. “We have a head start on the Combaticons, everyone knows they don’t use their team bond. We do.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes is more than never. We have other ground to make up, however: team cohesion outside of combination, discipline, _morale_.” 

Dead End vented a huff. “It isn’t against regulations,” he said.

“What do you mean, being morbid?”

“Associating with fellow soldiers,” Dead End said. “It’s encouraged, I’ve read the Cybertronian military code, fifty-fourth edition, with Megatron’s own annotations. That’s the version we hold to, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Motormaster said, “it is. _However_ I will not stand by and allow you to be corrupted by Onslaught’s criminal scum.”

“We’re all corrupted,” Dead End said. 

Motormaster gave him a disgusted look. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. Whatever Vortex told you, it’s a lie.”

“Probably.” Dead End tugged a chamois out of a compartment on his hip and set about wiping the specks from his knees. “Most things people say are lies, it’s how society works.”

“Vector Sigma!” The datapad creaked as Motormaster’s fingers tightened around it. “You will put this team first, do you understand me?”

Dead End didn’t bother to look up. “Yes, Motormaster.”

* * *

“Shove it up your tailpipe!” Wildrider yelled. 

“You’re not listening!” Drag Strip yelled back. “You can get fragged if you think I’m giving you five points for _almost_ clipping Megatron on the knee. Almost? That’s not even fraggin’ close!”

Dead End groaned and rolled over. They’d been at it for hours, ever since Motormaster had left to look for Breakdown. And now he knew why they were being punished. Morons. There was a reason racing was banned in the command corridors. 

He dialed down his audials, and tried to slip back into his book. Aurelia’s _Decline of the Golden Age_ ; not exactly a page turner, but it suited his mood. 

“FIVE POINTS!” Wildrider yelled, his voice coming through loud and clear despite Dead End’s dulled sensors. “And thirty for landing Screamer on his aft!”

“Twenty five,” Drag Strip shouted. 

“What the frag?”

“You lose five for style. Should’a driven right over his stupid face.”

As though that wouldn’t have landed them in solitary, Dead End thought. Actually, that wasn’t such an unpleasant thought. With his colleagues imprisoned, he might be able to focus long enough to get past reading the same paragraph over and over while absorbing none of the meaning. 

“Your face is stupid!” Wildrider yelled. 

Quietly and calmly, Dead End reached his breaking point. He turned the data pad off, stowed it in his compartment, and walked slowly out of his recharge chamber, along the corridor past Drag Strip’s and Wildrider’s respective rooms, and out of the Stunticon joint quarters. 

Taking a deep vent, he dipped his metaphorical toes into the shallows of the team bond, just enough to get a feel for Motormaster’s whereabouts on the base. 

He wasn’t on the base. Neither was Breakdown. A flash of cold hit his plating, a vision of stars scattered across a wide and cloudless sky, the smell of rust and ancient oil. A smooth metal road rolled beneath him, and familiar towers rose up all around. Dead End retreated quickly, before Motormaster could notice his intrusion. So he’d caught up with Breakdown, and they’d gone for a drive. He had a vision of Motormaster dispatching their smallest teammate and disposing of the parts. But no, he wouldn’t do that. And besides, he’d seemed oddly contented. 

Breakdown by contrast was a mess, but no more so than usual. There was no reason to worry. And worry itself was a waste of resources. What did it matter if Motormaster killed him? Or if they came to a stretch of road so weak it collapsed and let them drop to their deaths in the undercity? Taking the long view, or even the medium view, they were as good as gone anyway.

Dead End let his feet guide him. As long as he stayed away from the old Iacon-Iahex freeway he wasn’t likely to run into Motormaster, but that didn’t mean he had to remain indoors. 

He exited one of the ancient maintenance doors, stepping out into the chill of a darkened yard, and stopped. The Cybertronian night was spectacular, a display so vivid and vast that Dead End stood a while and marvelled at the cold, uncaring depths of space before deciding on a direction. 

He didn’t notice the paler shadow in the lee of a doorway until a voice spoke. “You can see Monacus from here.”

“And Illiria Five,” Dead End replied. “And a billion other astral bodies. What do you want?”

“Just making conversation,” Vortex said. 

“You’re lurking in a loading yard in the middle of the night.”

A blue light flashed: Vortex’s comm array. “Actually, I was talking with my teammate,” he said. “The reception’s better out here.”

“Really.” Dead End folded his arms. “Hadn’t you better get back to it?”

“He can wait.” Vortex stepped out from the shadow. He kicked a crate over and sat down. “All right, so he put me on hold. What’re you doing out here?”

Dead End couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Nothing,” he said, grateful for his mask.

“Nothing?” Vortex sounded amused. “So you’re lurking in a loading yard in the middle of the night?”

Dead End huffed, and scuffed the ground with his foot. “What did you mean?” he said at length. “Earlier, when you said… you know.”

“That’s not a conversation for a public space,” Vortex said quietly. 

“You won’t get me into a private one without a proper explanation,” Dead End countered. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Vortex tugged over another crate. “Have a seat.” 

Dead End hesitated. Even in the starlit centre of the yard, Vortex was a blur of black and grey, the light of his visor leaving a trail whenever he moved. 

“You don’t trust me,” Vortex said. “I get that, very wise. But you want answers, and I’m not about to shout.”

Pulling the chill air through his vents, Dead End crept over. He nudged the crate a little further away, and sat down. “So tell me,” he said.

Vortex leaned in, elbows on his knees and his rotors slowly turning. “A long time ago, I made some recordings. I’m willing to let you experience these, under supervision.”

Dead End leaned away. “Recordings?”

“Sure,” Vortex said. “Not just visuals, the full sensory array.”

“These… are recordings of people dying?”

Vortex nodded. “You can feel their sparks snuff out.” 

Dead End suppressed a shiver. “But… How did you get these?”

“Like I said.” Vortex shrugged. “I made them.”

“And you’ve still got them? You were in the Detention Centre for-”

“Don’t remind me. And yeah, I’ve still got them. They kept me busy while I was locked away.”

Dead End straightened. “You saved them to your _own_ databanks?”

“Safest place,” Vortex said, and tapped his helm. 

“Then I’d need to… we’d have to…”

“I told you,” Vortex said, “I’m not trying to frag you. Sure, we can hook up and I can share all my happy memories, but we don’t have to. I’ve made copies, we can hook you up to the console in my room.”

“Your room?”

Vortex nodded. “Remember I said you could do this supervised. It’s pretty hardcore, I’m not just gonna pass you a data crystal and let you try it all on your own.”

“I’m not afraid,” Dead End said. “I’ve read up on this, I know the dangers.”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Vortex said, “but when you’re in the middle of a replay, and it’s your spark that’s fading, your energon that’s draining, your life that’s trickling away… When I say it’s immersive, I mean it.”

Dead End stood, drawing a long and shaky vent. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “I… excuse me.” He strode back into the accommodation block. What was wrong with him? Eager, courteous, culpable - none of those was an appropriate response to exchanging words with Vortex. 

But scrap, what he could learn from those recordings. 

He pulled up in a lonely corridor, and leaned heavily on the wall. He must be glitching, maybe his logic centre had a malfunction. 

And now he was thinking like Breakdown. 

He sighed. It shouldn’t matter. Nothing mattered, not really. It was all shadows and lies and hollow vanity until some Autobot sniper got lucky or some natural disaster caught him in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He slunk back to the Stunticon quarters. Drag Strip and Wildrider were still at it. Insults flew like balls in one of those stupid human games Blitzwing liked to watch. Dead End was barely through the door before he felt a headache coming on. 

Motormaster was still out with Breakdown. Dead End’s room was still cold and dark and miserable, and full of his team-mates’ blather.

Dead End leant his head against the wall and vented deep. Then he called up the ship’s comms list, and sent a message to Vortex. 

* * *

The Stunticon dawdled on the threshold of Vortex’s room. He smelt of wax and fresh oil, human-made, a pleasant odour matched by the impeccable gleam of his bodywork in the hallway’s harsh strip lights. 

“Come in,” Vortex said, stepping aside for him. “Or don’t. Just don’t stand there with the door open.”

Dead End coughed. “Your team?” he said. 

“It’s just me,” Vortex said. “We don’t dorm together, so there’s no-one gonna disturb you.”

After a moment’s pause, Dead End nodded, and stepped into the room. The door locked behind him, and he gave a little start. Endearing. Just like the casual flicker of his optics as he glanced around the room while trying to look as though that wasn’t what he was doing. 

“Take a seat,” Vortex said, and threw himself onto the couch. He put his feet on the table, and wriggled until his rotors were well and truly embedded in the foam of the backrest.

Dead End perched on the edge of a chair, tense and wary. Maybe a stiff drink would loosen him up, but no, not yet. His first time should be sober; save the drink for the after party. 

“So how does this work?” Dead End said. “And how long will it take?”

“How long have you got?”

The Stunticon shrugged. He glanced around again, maybe looking for weapons. But those were in the locker as per regulations, and any little extras Vortex kept for entertainment purposes were safely hidden away. 

“I’ve got a joor,” Dead End said. “Perhaps all night. It’s not against the rules. Seeing you, I mean. Seeing anyone. A fellow Decepticon.” He clamped up, obviously aware he was babbling.

“You can see who you like,” Vortex said. “So what kind of death do you want?”

“What kind? You have different kinds?”

Vortex retracted his mask to let Dead End see his relaxed friendly smile. “Do you want exciting or tragic? All of them are pretty violent, but I’ve got a few old comrades here.”

Dead End shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Guys who got injured beyond repair. Guys I liked. I helped them out.” Vortex waited for that to sink in. “Then there’s the regular murders, contract killings, random empties I decided to have a bit of fun with, that kind of thing. A few people paid me to kill them, like an assisted suicide, I could show you one of them if you like.”

“Um…” Dead End swallowed. “Battlefield,” he said. “A mercy killing. Uh, do you have any coolant?”

“I’ll get it,” Vortex said, pushing himself out of the seat. “You sit back and try to relax.”

Dead End nodded, hands clasped tightly in his lap and his vents roaring. He’d be lucky if he didn’t snap a cable, wound up like that. 

Vortex poured him some coolant and waited while he drank. “You don’t need to be nervous,” he said. “I’ll look after you.”

Dead End’s optics widened, and his head snapped up. 

“I’m serious,” Vortex said. “Getting flattened by your commander ain’t on my To Do list. So I’m not gonna let anything happen to you that you don’t want, OK?”

“He might flatten you anyway,” Dead End said. 

“Heh. If he comes after me without an official warrant, I don’t have to play nice.” He grabbed a cushion off another seat and set it at one end of the sofa. “You need to lay down.”

“Then what?” Dead End said. 

“Then I’ll hook you up to my computer, you can run a check for viruses and all that scrap, I’ll instruct the console to ping for access, and I’ll play the memory.”

Dead End didn’t ask what happened after that. He took a couple of deep shuddering vents, and settled himself on the sofa. Horizontal, he didn’t look any less tantalising than he did vertical. All those long sweeping curves and gleaming details, they just begged for a closer inspection. 

Vortex kept his observations to himself. He set up his computer on the table, and passed Dead End the cables to make the connections himself. He had a fine set of ports, as beautifully polished as the rest of him, and pretty elegant cables, considering his build type. He handed two to Vortex, and shuffled around as Vortex plugged them into the computer. 

Vortex plugged himself into the computer too, using the data cable at his wrist. “Just a safeguard,” he said. “I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

The Stunticon seemed to accept that. He shuffled around again, and made a visible effort at relaxation. Vortex could think of a few things that might help him unwind, and it made him grin as he located the files and told the computer to initiate the interface. 

Dead End let out a vent, long and slow. He drummed his fingers on the couch, and tilted back his head. His purple optics flickered, then went dim. His mask moved, but he didn’t speak. 

When the computer made its access request, there was no hesitation. He flung himself head-first into the memory, thoughtless and eager. Vortex ran the file for himself, visuals-only, synched to the computer. It gave him reference points, allowed him to match Dead End’s responses to the stimulus. 

Dead End gasped, maybe at the scenery, maybe it was the quality of the recording. Hot sand underfoot, twin suns blazing above. He raised an arm to shield his eyes. 

Full immersion was a beautiful thing. The Stunticon’s fans went from a gentle hum to a frantic roar, his vents coming quick and ragged. He clasped his side, the same place Synapse had taken a direct shot from a pulse cannon. 

Synapse; tall and clunky, a loud drunk with a long fuse. Not the best of shots, and a mediocre soldier, but better at conversation than the other available options. Without the recordings, Vortex would easily have forgotten him. 

He didn’t think Dead End would ever forget. 

Synapse lay at the foot of a dune, bled dry and fading. He knew he was dying; he was on the countdown. Four joors to go. Four joors of torment under alien skies, slipping slowly beneath the creeping dune to end his days alone in the dark. 

Dead End rolled onto his side, clearly uncomfortable. Vortex lay a hand on his shoulder, as he’d done for Synapse on that long-ago desert. 

A medic might have saved him. Vortex knew it; Synapse knew it, and now Dead End knew it too. A medic might have shut him down in stasis lock, might have shipped him back to the nearest med unit. But there were no medics. Synapse was black ops, just like Vortex. He didn’t exist, and there was no official Cybertronian presence in this sector, let alone this planet.

The recording began after Vortex had hooked them up. Dead End shuddered, and Vortex instructed the computer to reduce sensory input by fifty percent. Synapse had swung between intense agony and numb relief; Vortex had thoroughly enjoyed those upswings, but he didn’t think Dead End would be quite so appreciative. 

Synapse had been appreciative. More than appreciative. He’d been desperate. Not for a miracle, rescue, salvation. He wasn’t stupid. He wanted out, quick and clean and permanent. 

Dead End rolled again, and Vortex held his cables, making sure he didn’t get tangled or tug one out. Dead End groaned as Synapse groaned; he grit his teeth as Synapse did, and hissed as Vortex forced Synapse’s chest apart and dipped his fingers into the failing outer layers of his spark.

Vortex didn’t need the computer to remind him how that felt. He grinned, and settled in to watch Dead End’s face while the memory showed him pushing a slim lever of metal into a crack in the scorched surface of Synapse’s spark casing. He wrenched, and Dead End screamed. 

Synapse hadn’t screamed. He’d smiled, in shock and relief, and that smile had lasted longer than the light in his eyes. Vortex had disconnected, lying warm and happy on the desert floor until the bliss of overload subsided, and the sand began to grate. 

That part wasn’t in the recording. It stopped with Synapse’s death, the final hot burn of his spark as it fed on itself, before shrinking and winking out. 

Dead End shuddered, his fans still roaring and his energy field pulsing in wild fluctuations. He tugged the computer’s connectors free, and took back his own. His hands shook as he refastened his cover, and still he didn’t reboot his vision. 

Vortex left him to it. He unclipped his data cable and closed the computer. He’d needed a while after his first time. And sure, his own first time had been different - a direct hit, a shot of pain and terror so good the overload had damn near knocked him out - but Dead End wasn’t exactly a robust build type. He’d need time and silence and maybe a gallon or five of something triple distilled and shimmering. 

If Vortex had any regrets, it was not recording his first time. Laughing softly to himself, he grabbed a can of coolant and settled into the chair to wait for Dead End to surface. 

* * *

Dead End was mortified. The last wave of his climax faded to a warm tingle, a counterpoint to his embarrassment. Vortex had laughed at him, the first sound he heard after Synapse… after he... Dead End shuddered. The moment had been catastrophic, all-consuming. Death had hit him like a freight train, so wide and cold and empty. So final. Little crackles of pleasure still rippled through his sensornet, and he cringed. What must Vortex think? Was he still laughing? Was he watching, waiting? Dead End thought so, although he couldn’t fathom what for. 

Payment, maybe? The thought struck him with a queasy inevitability. He hadn’t thought of that. 

“You want something to drink?” Vortex asked. 

“N-no.” Dead End brought his optics online. He stared at the seatback. Would Vortex just let him leave? 

“At least have some coolant,” Vortex said. “There’s still some left from earlier.”

“I,” Dead End begun. He rebooted his vocaliser, spitting static, and tried again. “I’m OK.” He heaved himself over, his head swimming. “I should be getting back.”

“Not a good plan,” Vortex said. He was a grey blur in the gloom, getting closer. Dead End vented deep, struggling for focus. A pressure registered on the seat next to him, an arm across his shoulders. “You should lay down,” Vortex told him. “Get some recharge. You don’t want your team to know now, do you?”

It was like a punch to the gut. Dead End grunted and covered his face. “What do you want out of this?” he croaked. 

“Now you come to mention it,” Vortex said, and Dead End tensed. “You and Breakdown, you sometimes run security detail for the loading bays, don’t you?”

Dead End looked up. “Yes? What, why?”

Vortex grinned. “Oh, nothing really. Just that a mech might feel a sense of camaraderie towards someone who gives him what he wants. He might like to look the other way if he sees that person, or a member of his team, somewhere they’re not strictly meant to be.”

“Of course,” Dead End said. Relief washed through him like a tide. 

“Great,” Vortex said brightly. He returned to his own chair. “You can relax,” he added. “Grab some recharge, get energised, do what you like. Just stay here a while, at least until you can sit up without swaying.”

It was all good sense, although Dead End examined each suggestion for sinister intent. He felt like Breakdown, questioning everything. But he knew what Vortex wanted now; the rotary was getting something out of this too. So it was all right, wasn’t it?

Shakily, he reached for the coolant. It went down well, coating his throat and smothering the heat around his spark. He didn’t need to be warm here. Which meant he shouldn’t think about the recording. 

“You haven’t said if you liked it,” Vortex commented. 

Dead End set the glass down and lay back. “I, um, I’m not sure I want to talk about it,” he said. 

“Sure you can,” Vortex said. “It’s not like I’m in any position to judge.”

Was that a smirk? But Vortex always looked inappropriately entertained. 

“It was… very interesting,” Dead End said. 

“Was it what you were hoping for?”

He sighed, letting the backrest take his weight. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Was it what _you_ were expecting?”

“Mostly,” Vortex answered. And wasn’t that reassuring. 

Dead End crossed his arms. “Mostly?”

Now Vortex really did smirk. “I didn’t think you’d be so embarrassed,” he said. 

“Embarrassed?” Oh frag, he’d noticed. And now he was about to talk about it, and would the floor please open up and swallow him. 

“Yeah. You know it gets me off. Killing, being hooked up while I do it. I’m not ashamed to talk about it. But you’re so… I dunno. You remind me of this alpha I used to know.”

“Alpha?” Dead End said.

“Alpha caste, like-”

“I am familiar with the concept of the caste system,” Dead End interrupted. “I meant which alpha? And why do I remind you of them?”

Vortex swung his legs off the table and got up. “The way you talk,” he said, wandering over to the shelf with the energon. “The things you like. Even the type of vid you chose.”

“Excuse me? You’ve done this before?”

Picking up two small cubes, Vortex returned to his seat. He pushed one across the table. “Sure,” he said. “Not often, but sometimes I meet someone who, well, it suits their tastes. I think you know what I mean.”

A ripple of warmth spread through his interfacing array, and Dead End hugged his chassis tighter. “What, uh, did this person look like?”

“Tall and sleek.” Vortex peeled the film lid from his cube. “She had one of those frames where you gotta play ‘guess the alt mode’ cause there’s wings and tires and all kinds of things.”

“Triple changer?” Dead End asked. 

Vortex shook his head. “Hover-racer. The tires were for show.” He vented deep over the cube, the tempting scent of high grade filtering through the room. 

“And she liked…” Dead End shrugged, hoping Vortex would fill the rest in himself. 

“Yeah, she _liked_ ,” Vortex replied. “The other cube’s yours. I didn’t put it there to tease you.”

Slowly, Dead End leaned forward and took the cube. This close he could smell the fuel through the wrapper. “Was she beautiful?” he asked. 

“Very.”

Coughing to clear his vocal unit, Dead End settled back. “Is this triple distilled?” 

Vortex took a long sip, then nodded. 

“And you’re giving this to me freely.”

Another nod, another sip. 

“And all you want in return is for me to turn a blind eye to certain activities.”

Vortex sighed with evident enjoyment. “Uh-huh. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem.” Dead End ripped the lid from his cube, and took the tiniest sip. It sizzled. 

Vortex shot him another smirk, but forebore to comment. Thank Primus. Dead End wriggled deeper into his seat, and slowly drained his cube. It was good. Too good. Whatever Vortex’s team was sneaking through the loading bay, it had to be high stakes. You wouldn’t give away energon like this for a crate of body wax.

After a while Vortex reached for the TV remote. Dead End hugged his cube, warm and a little tense. He shifted to face the screen; this could be acceptable, at least for a while. 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“You fraternised with that helicopter,” Motormaster said. They sat in alt mode in an abandoned desert truck stop in nowhere’sville, Earth, waiting for their rendezvous with Astrotrain. Dead End was certain that a loaded trailer was the only thing that stood between him and the full wrath of his commanding officer, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The tarmac was warm under his tires, a pleasant heat radiating from the ground to sooth his chassis. The dust would need to be dealt with, but the Sun caught his paintwork just right, and Primus he looked good.

“Are you even listening?” Motormaster growled.

“Yes,” Dead End replied. “I’m listening.”

“You weren’t listening yesterday. I told you not to see him, and you saw him.”

“You told me to put the team first,” Dead End said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?” Motormaster revved his engine. “You fraternised with the enemy. You went against the team.”

“Have you looked at our team lately?” Dead End said. “I have a perfect service record. Can we say the same for Wildrider? What about Drag Strip? They have thirty minor infractions between the two of them, and that’s just this year. And Breakdown-”

“Do _not_ start on Breakdown,” Motormaster warned. “I am well aware of the failings of our team.”

“Then you’ll be aware that I’m the least of your worries,” Dead End said.

There was a pause, then Motormaster said, “What does he give you that we don’t?”

Fulfillment, Dead End thought, a comfortable silence, a cube of triple distilled high grade. “Nothing,” he said.

“Then why go to him?”

Dead End activated his washers, sweeping the bugs and the sand from his windshield. “You make it sound so sordid,” he said.

“Isn’t it? Everyone knows what he’s like. Did he pull rank on you?”

“No!” A quiver of disgust wracked Dead End’s internals. “He was perfectly civilised.”

“He’s planning something. I should confine you to quarters.”

“If you wish,” Dead End said. He focused on the heat pressing in on him from all directions, the pleasant desert breeze sweeping the dust from his hood. He thought of lying warm and drowsy on Vortex’s couch, a tingle of excess charge still working its way through his circuits.

“It’d be for your own good,” Motormaster said, but Dead End had already stopped listening.

* * *

Vortex guessed it would be a week before Dead End would be back. He didn’t have to wait two days.

“I… That is, may I come in?” Dead End stood in the doorway, perfectly polished and beautifully apprehensive.

“Sure.” Vortex ushered him in, taking a quick look into the corridor to see who was watching before closing and locking the door. “Make yourself at home,” he said.

“Uh, thank you. Um.” Dead End gave the available seats a quick glance before perching on the edge of the sofa.

“You look like a guy with something on his mind,” Vortex said. He threw himself into his favourite chair, and propped his feet on the table.

Dead End nodded, and his engine made an odd little whine. It was quite endearing, the kind of noise Swindle made in the presence of large quantities of other people’s money.

“Do you want another go?” Vortex asked.

Dead End nodded again, and swallowed.

Vortex smiled. “I’ve got a quarter joor then I’m on duty. We can do this now, but you gotta promise me you’ll rest up here after.”

This time the nod was frantic. “Yes. Yes, I’ll rest up.”

“All right,” Vortex stretched and reached for his console. “What kind of death do you want today?”

* * *

It was no less intense for having been expected. Dead End curled face down on the sofa, biting his lip and trying not to moan. He couldn’t look, not yet; Vortex would be watching. Why couldn’t they skip to the comfortable lack of conversation, the warm afterglow in the flickering light of the television screen?

Vortex yawned loudly. “Packs a kick, doesn’t it?”

Dead End shuddered. He could still taste the bitter clot of old energon, the rank dust that had settled in the dying soldier’s mouth. He reached blindly for the table, and Vortex caught his hand and wrapped his fingers around a chilly can of coolant.

“Sit up,” Vortex said. “I don’t want you to choke.”

Dead End leant up on his arm and swilled a mouthful of coolant around.

Vortex smiled. “There’s energon on the shelf, drink some. I gotta go.”

“What, now?” Dead End’s optics came back on, in time to see Vortex switch off the console and head to the door. “You said you had a quarter joor.”

“Yeah, and we used that. And now I gotta go or I’ll be late.” Vortex’s mask extended from his helm, clicking into place. “You’ll need to let yourself out. Don’t worry about the codes, the door’s got autolock.”

Dead End rebooted his optics, trying to work out what to say, but Vortex was already gone.

* * *

Dead End didn’t try the console, there was no point. He did wander around Vortex’s room for a while until he found the TV remote stuffed down the side of a chair, but he didn’t investigate the contents of the rotary’s datapads, and he certainly didn’t hunt around his berth looking for secret compartments that might contain other data crystals with plenty of memories and no encryption.

Not for more than a minute or two anyway; Vortex might come back.

He wanted Vortex to come back.

He didn’t want to get caught, but the laws of inevitability stated that the more he pried into Vortex’s personal things, the more likely it was Vortex would come back and catch him in the act.

So he gave it a try, trusting in the certainty that Bad Things Happened.

He found a case of field rations, a small roll of laser scalpels, an American-made calendar showing different types of Earth helicopter, and half a dozen holographic pictures of Blast Off in alt mode.

Vortex did not come back.

Dead End sighed and sprawled on the sofa. The remote dangled from his hand, and the only thing that moved was his thumb, clicking through the channels.

It wasn’t like he wanted to talk to Vortex. Not really. It was just, he’d expected more.

Which was stupid. Vortex was on duty, and even if he did come back he’d probably just loom in that creepy way of his, where his frame implied something totally at odds to his words. And he’d laugh. But maybe he’d put his arm around Dead End again. Maybe they could sit together, quietly.

Maybe it might go further.

Dead End put the brakes on that line of thought, and tried to focus on the TV. A documentary about turbo-rats gave way to the kind of sit-com with squishy actors the Seekers liked, then the excited babble of a race commentator as an aerial camera followed a pair of beat-up groundframe Autobots through twisted metal ruins.

He watched a while in case the Autobots crashed, but they were remarkably lucky. No shooting, no fiery ball of death, no inevitable doom.

It was all a bit disappointing really.

* * *

“You’re distracted!” Motormaster made a swipe for Dead End’s head, and he only just ducked in time. “Get your processors out of the gutter and you mind on the job!”

Wildrider snickered, and Drag Strip smirked. Dead End kept his optics on Motormaster’s hands. “I’m focused,” he said. 

“Liar! Breakdown, get over here. Stunticons, combine!”

It wasn’t the worst team building exercise ever, but it certainly numbered in the top five. Dead End let the dull cloud of Menasor swallow him, and tried in vain to imagine it was like dying. 

When he came back to himself the targets were destroyed, Motormaster’s gun was steaming, and Dead End ached with a jittery, nervous tension from his fingertips to the soles of his feet. 

“Don’t let him feel that,” Breakdown whispered. “He’ll think you want to try… you know.”

“If he does, I can’t stop him,” Dead End replied. 

“What are you two mumbling about?” Motormaster yelled. “Drag Strip, Wildrider, did I say your punishment was over? Get back to quarters. Dead End to me, Breakdown…” But Breakdown was already transforming. He vaulted over the low wall and landed tyres spinning on the road outside. “Breakdown!”

Motormaster stormed after him, to Wildrider’s and Drag Strip’s intense amusement. Then the two of them sulked slowly back to base, leaving Dead End once more alone.

* * *

Vortex answered the door to a very pleasing picture indeed. 

Dead End stared at his feet. “I want something harsher,” he said quietly. “Something… not gentle.”

Vortex stepped aside. “I’ve got just the thing.”

With none of his usual hesitancy, Dead End went straight for the sofa. He perched on the edge, and unclipped the cover to his plug and port array. There was a smear on his shoulder, a streak of wax that hadn’t been properly buffed. 

“Bad day?” Vortex asked, as he prepped the console. 

“Team building,” Dead End replied. 

“Didn’t go well, huh?” 

Dead End coughed. 

“You wanna pass me your cable?”

Dead End coughed again. “Uh… I…”

Vortex glanced up. Dead End looked edible, like one of those garnet-effect gel candies Blast Off used to buy back in the Golden Age. “What’s up?”

“I, um… It’s nothing. Really.” Dead End unspooled his cable. 

“If you’re having second thoughts…”

He virtually threw the cable. “No! No, I’m not having second thoughts. Plug me in.”

Vortex absently thumbed the end of the connector, making it spark. “Are you sure?” 

Dead End shuddered. “I know my own mind,” he snapped. He shook his head and took a deep vent. “I know what I want,” he said, and his voice wasn’t exactly level but he was certainly making the effort. “I want this.”

Vortex nodded and hooked him up with the console. Dead End vented, fidgeting. There was clearly something he was failing to say, some need he wanted met perhaps, some desire he didn’t quite know how to express. 

“If you want out at any point,” Vortex said, “just tell me.”

Dead End snatched the console’s cable and plugged himself in. Then he shuffled back, still sitting bolt upright. He glanced at the empty part of the seat. 

Vortex pretended not to notice. He plugged himself into the console. “You should lie down.” 

“I know what to expect,” Dead End replied, but when the ping didn’t come from the console he slowly complied. 

“Good,” Vortex said, and sent the command.

Dead End clearly didn’t know what to expect. Vortex settled down to watch him, bringing his chair in close so he could feel the faint buzz of the other’s energy field. Dead End groaned and rolled onto his front, stretching a little to get comfortable. It was quite a show, and Vortex wondered if Dead End had any idea how tantalising he was. 

He didn’t screw around, that much Vortex knew. He probably 'faced with his team. Perhaps he kept himself bright for Motormaster, or for someone in high command. Soundwave liked a good polish, Shockwave too. 

Dead End gasped, and Vortex turned his attention to the recording. A chase on foot through Kaon’s back streets; the floor was slick with soot, the powder so fine it behaved almost like a liquid. The walls ran with condensation, gritty water swirling with oil and the run-off from industrial sluicing chemicals. 

Through the mess Vortex ran. It was fun to see himself in the past, to hear his harsh ventilation, to feel the heat of the air and smell the bitter stench of the nearby smelting pits. He chose the path less travelled, his footprints clear in the grime and the soot.

Dead End tensed. Maybe he’d realised Vortex was being chased. It had been an exhilarating race, from the tumbletown warehouse where the empties congregated, to the dim alleys at the edge of the reclamation district. Vortex hadn’t taken flight. Twice he’d pretended to try, half transformed then back to running, giving his pursuer just enough time not to lose him in the gloom. 

Venting deep, Dead End gripped the arm of the sofa and buried his face in the fabric. He was so smooth, so touchable. Such a shame he was lying on his front; Vortex indulged himself in the thought of teasing open the Stunticon’s covers, of bringing him to a different kind of overload when the time came. 

Dead End certainly was running hot. And he wasn’t about to cool down any time soon. In the memory Vortex took the right wrong turn, and doubled back, straight into the wide embrace of his pursuer. 

“Thought you could run, eh?” 

“It was worth a shot.”

Dead End cringed, then his engine stalled as the hulking grounder adjusted his grip and made his intentions very clear. 

Vortex stretched, beginning to ever so slightly regret this choice of entertainment. Pressure built behind his spike cover, enjoyable and frustrating in equal measure. 

There was something about large grounders, they were nigh-on irresistable. So strong and big, and Vortex had always loved that feeling of almost being crushed, that heat and weight on top of him. 

Dead End brought his knees up under him, his optics flickering a moment before dimming again to grey. 

In the memory, Vortex played the innocent. He shivered and tried to slowly back away, but the grounder had a grip on his pelvic plating and Vortex was not about to make him let go. Words were exchanged, the grip shifted, Dead End whined as Vortex’s covers came loose, as the haulage bot roughly hooked them up. 

Then the tables turned and Dead End gasped, and Vortex grinned at the recollection of his attacker’s surprise, his newly frozen limbs, his failing vocal processors. He pushed the mech, a gentle shove, and he fell stiffly, painfully onto his back. By the time he’d recovered the use of his limbs, Vortex had sliced through his major linkages, and all he could do was howl and thrash the mucky stump of his torso. 

It had been a shame, but the mech had clearly not been into pain. Vortex could happily have ridden him to a sore tomorrow, but there was no pressure in his cord, and no point in taking him another way; Vortex preferred smaller mecha around his spike.

Dead End writhed, clearly aroused, and very embarrassed. But he made no move to unplug himself, his face still pressed against the arm of the sofa. 

It was a little disappointing that he wasn’t more like Vortex. It would have been wonderful to have a lapful of Stunticon, squirming on his heated panel, begging for his valve to be filled. But the night was young, and if interfacing was the point Vortex would have used different tactics from the start. 

In the memory the soot turned pink, the ground gleamed with an ever expanding pool of energon. The mech went swiftly from anger to pain to fear to stark mortal terror the closer Vortex got to his spark. Every slice of the knife earnt a cry, every sharp tug on a bunch of wires a jerk and a yowl. 

It was graphic, and Vortex began to wonder if it was too much for Dead End, but the Stunticon was rapt, his vents decreased to shallow panting, his frame still. 

The interface wasn’t perfect, but the terror came loud and clear, seasoned by regret and despair, spiced by the rich scent of the energon streaming onto the ground. His spark had been strong, it didn’t want to gutter, and it clung to life around the blade, around Vortex’s probing fingers and tongue. Dead End groaned and rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his face. He stuffed his knuckles in his mouth when Vortex made the final plunge, and bucked his fine gleaming body as the spark finally failed. 

Two seconds later he seemed to realise what an exhibition he’d made of himself, and curled up with his head in his hands.

“You don’t need to be ashamed,” Vortex said. He unhooked them from the console and laid Dead End’s connector on the seat next to him. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He leaned forward and gently pulled the computer’s plug from the corresponding port. Dead End jerked, his knees coming up again beneath him. 

Vortex nudged Dead End’s arm. “If it was too much, you can say.”

“No,” Dead End mumbled. “It’s not too much, it’s never too much.” His hands slipped down his face, pausing to rub at his optics. “I want another.”

“Really?” Vortex wheeled his chair as close as it would get and wrapped his fingers around Dead End’s wrist. 

“I can cope,” Dead End said, making no attempt to shrug Vortex off. 

“You’re running hot.”

Dead End gave him a look. “Like that isn’t normal.”

Vortex smirked. “You really want to go again, now, as in right now?”

“Do we have the time?”

Vortex checked his chronometer. “Actually, yeah, we do. But you’re having fuel and coolant first.” And Vortex was going to have to find a way to sneak a quick break somewhere private because frag, the pressure was not going down. 

Dead End’s expression did not help. “All right,” he said. “But this time… I…” He took a deep vent. “This time I want a direct connection.”

Vortex’s smirk vanished. “You… want… huh?”

“Oh, um, not if you don’t want to. I, uh, I got the impression before, when we were talking, that you wouldn’t be averse to it, and-”

“Wouldn’t be averse?” Vortex repeated. He gave himself a quick optical tour of Dead End’s bodywork. “You’re gorgeous, what kind of idiot would say no?”

The smallest smile caught Dead End’s lips. 

“There’s something I gotta do first though,” Vortex said, because it would be unwise to assume that an invitation to a hardline interface would end with the Stunticon bouncing in his lap. “Gimme five.”

* * *

Dead End nodded, his arm flopping back over his face. A parade of should-haves lined up to kick him in the brain module, but he ignored them. Sure, he should have found the ball bearings to proposition Vortex in the first place. And sure, he should have kissed him or opened for him or _something_ before the Combaticon had a chance to skip out and have second thoughts. 

The door closed. He rolled his optics at himself, seeing nothing but the underside of his own arm. His doubts were vain and stupid and entirely unnecessary. Even discounting the futility of physical intimacy, Vortex was well known for a vocabulary entirely void of the word ‘no’. He was the opposite of picky, and he had a thing for grounders. There was no way he was about to have second thoughts. 

He’d even taken Wildrider for a spin once, when they were new, and hadn’t Motormaster blown up about that. 

Just like Motormaster was going to blow up about this. Not that it mattered. Caught by enemy fire, crushed by his commander’s own hands, eaten alive by cosmic rust; it was all the same in the end. 

Vortex returned with a wicked gleam in his optics and a smile that tingled through Dead End’s circuits. 

He locked the door and passed Dead End a cube of mid grade. “I meant what I said about fuelling up.” 

Dead End nodded and sat straight, shuffling over to make space. He hardly tasted the energon; he could still smell the Kaon back streets, the bitter burnt tang of the air sticking at the back of his throat. 

“What do you fancy this time?” Vortex asked, taking the seat beside him. Dead End half expected him to take liberties as well, and would it have been so bad if he did? It couldn’t be worse than it was with his team, and with the way he felt he might even manage a physical overload. 

But Vortex was as civilised as Dead End had claimed to Motormaster, and kept his hands to himself. 

Dead End finished his drink before replying. “Surprise me,” he said. “But something clean this time. Indoors perhaps.”

“You got it,” Vortex said, and stood. “C’mon, we’re moving this to the bunk. Last time I ‘faced on the sofa Brawl got his cable wrapped around the leg and Swindle didn’t talk to me for a month.”

“I thought you didn’t like Swindle,” Dead End said. He followed Vortex to the berth, and couldn’t help but think of all those partners he’d brought back here. But it looked clean, and the covering was some kind of organic textile, the same texture as the cloths he used for fine buffing. 

“You know how team can be,” Vortex said, and that was when he chose to start taking liberties. 

Dead End leaned into the kiss, completely at a loss as to what to do with his hands. He’d read the manual, but Vortex didn’t have tires or suspension or a curvaceous hood to grab a hold of. Was he meant to touch the rotors? 

Vortex certainly knew where to touch him, and scrap that was nice. Smooth stroking, nothing harsh or sudden, nothing sharp. Just a light and pleasant caress that wouldn’t scratch his finish. And wow, Vortex could trace his fingers over Dead End’s interface array any time he liked if he was going to do it like that. 

“How do you wanna do this?” Vortex asked, giving a tire a little squeeze. “You wanna go on top? Side by side?”

“I want you on top,” Dead End said. He saw the laser knife from the memory, Vortex plugged in with his attacker paralysed. His circuits thrilled. “How did you do it?” he asked. 

“Do what?” Vortex lifted him and laid him gently in the center of the bunk. He followed him up, his rotors bouncing.

“How did you incapacitate him?” Dead End said. “You let him plug into you, and you switched him off.”

Vortex grinned, and tugged Dead End’s cables from their spools. “It’s a little trick of the trade,” he said. He flicked his glossa over the buzzing plugs before clicking them home in the panel at his waist. “Interrogator’s secret.”

“Do it to me,” Dead End whispered. 

“No can do,” Vortex said, and bent to nuzzle Dead End’s throat. The spark of pleasure knocked the edge off the disappointment.

“Why not? Can’t you do it any more?”

“Oh, I can,” Vortex said. “But not to you. That would be an abuse of my authority, and I’m _very_ fond of my authority.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone, you have my word.”

Vortex kissed Dead End on the lips, and clicked his own connectors into the Stunticon’s array. Dead End arched, not waiting for the access ping, but opening up everything he thought he might possibly need to lay bare. 

“I know you wouldn’t,” Vortex said. “But it’s the kind of thing your internal log makes a note of, and that ain’t the kind of note I can erase. At your next medical, they’d find out.”

“But you _could_ do it?” Dead End pushed. “If you really wanted to.”

Vortex laughed. “I could,” he said, and he must have done something because the ceiling vanished and above Dead End was the sky, Earth’s sky, wide and deep and blue. He tumbled in freefall, sucked towards the planet, about to crash. His optics booted to Vortex’s visor, to his suggestive smile. “But I can do other things,” he said. “I take it that worked?”

Dead End nodded. He was panting, he realised, his array heating, his energy field awash with excitement. “Show me death,” he said. “I’m ready.”

* * *

“Where is he?” Motormaster demanded. He stalked through the Stunticon quarters as though his anger alone would be enough to bring Dead End out of hiding.

“He’s asleep,” Breakdown said. He kept to the shadows, staying just out of reach.

“I can see that,” Motormaster snarled. “But _where_.”

“He got lucky last night,” Wildrider called from his room.

“You were _watching_ him?” Breakdown shuddered.

“The team bond is not to be used for voyeurism,” Motormaster snapped. “Dare I ask _who?_ ”

“Who do you think?” Drag Strip yelled from his own room. And not Wildrider’s, where he’d been until a few astroseconds before Motormaster crashed through the door.

Wildrider snickered and put on a parody of Dead End’s voice. “Oooh, Mr Interrogator, you’re so grey and deathly, take me!”

Motormaster’s engine went quiet. “Wildrider...”

“Screw me like a flatpack shelving unit!”

“ _Wildrider!_ ”

Breakdown edged towards the exit. He caught Drag Strip’s eye as he passed his door, but Drag Strip just winked and didn’t say anything. Breakdown gave him the nod, and slowly backed away.

“Come on,” Wildrider persisted. “He totally would! Drag Strip, back me up here!”

“Wildrider, I swear that the next word to come out of your mouth will be the last one you utter for a very long time.”

Breakdown froze halfway to the door handle.

Fortunately, Wildrider was of the opinion that his luck was for testing. “Oh come _on!_ You can’t blame him, the guy’s like the only rotary on base. He’s the only rotary in the fraggin’ army! Don’t say you wouldn’t.”

As Hurricane Motormaster descended on Wildrider, Breakdown slipped through the door to relative safety. As soon as he was out of earshot, he transformed and headed for the nearest exit from the base. If he was playing ball, Drag Strip would wait another few seconds before calling after him, and Wildrider wouldn’t get pummelled into a ball of scrap. Hopefully.

It was with a small surge of joy that Breakdown heard his name roared through the gestalt bond. Making only the minimum effort to hide his tracks, he fled.

* * *

Dead End had never woken up beside a lover before. It was strange and awkward, but also warm and comfortable, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to move.

Was lover the right word? Interfacing partner, perhaps. Or did that sound too formal? And did it even matter? One feedback loop, regardless the amount of petting that went along with it, did not a relationship make.

Vortex yawned loudly and rolled over, promptly groping Dead End’s aft. “Morning.”

“Morning!”

“I’m on duty in ten,” Vortex said. “Frag, you’re good enough to eat. When’s your next off cycle?”

“Twenty three hundred hours,” Dead End replied. He rolled over at Vortex’s urging, receiving a wandering hand for his trouble.

“I’ll be here,” Vortex said.

“Is that an invitation?” Dead End asked, but Vortex just grinned.

Dead End found himself smiling as he hurried back to his room. It lasted until he opened the door.

“Walk of shame!” Wildrider yelled. “Walk of _shaaaaaame!_ ”

“Shut _up!_ ” Drag Strip laughed, and for some reason his voice seemed to be coming from the same place. “Hey, Dead End, did he take you for a ride?”

“Yeah,” Wildrider sneered, “a helicopter ride.”

“I’m not listening,” Dead End announced, passing the doorway. He caught a glimpse of the two of them entangled on Wildrider’s bunk.

“So how was it?” Wildrider called. “What did you do? Come on, dish the dirt!”

“He doesn’t do anything with dirt,” Drag Strip said. “I bet there’s no dirt to dish.”

“They probably just talked,” Wildrider said. “ _All night long_.”

“Maybe they read nihilist poetry at each other,” Drag Strip snickered. “Pleasure is pointless! Life is pointless! We should sit in the dark together and contemplate the meaninglessness of existence!”

“While we frag!” Wildrider cried. “That makes it funny. Yours wasn’t funny.”

Dead End shut himself in his room. He had two hours until their next shift, and no reason whatsoever to be conscious until then.

* * *

“He’ll get bored,” Breakdown said.

Motormaster shifted above him, but thankfully didn’t get up. “Who, Dead End or Vortex?”

“Vortex,” Breakdown responded. His voice echoed in the cramped little cave made of Motormaster’s chest and arms. It was safe here, comforting. Nothing could get him because Motormaster was everywhere, although the echo was a little disconcerting. “He’ll get bored and move on.”

“How can you be sure?” Motormaster’s voice reverberated, spreading a tingle through Breakdown’s body.

“I hear people talk,” Breakdown said. “He doesn’t do long term. And remember what it was like with Wildrider. We didn’t see him for a solid week and then bam! Back to normal.”

“Hmm…”

“And it didn’t do us any harm,” Breakdown said. “At least, I don’t think it did. Maybe it did and we haven’t worked out how yet.”

“No,” Motormaster said, “it didn’t.” He flopped to the side, tugging Breakdown tight against his chest before the air and the dim grey light and the space could get the better of him. At least this ruin wasn’t open to the sky; Shockwave’s satellites couldn’t spy on them here, and there were no grates or shafts to the undercity so nothing could sneak up from below. Still, Breakdown liked it better when Motormaster was a shell around him. He shivered.

“So in your opinion,” Motormaster said slowly, “we should let Dead End get on with it.”

“Basically,” Breakdown replied. “But we should keep tabs on him, just in case. You can’t be too careful.”

Motormaster laughed, and Breakdown sighed; he liked that sound, it was good. And he liked Motormaster like this. Just the two of them, tight like they were combined, but separate in their own heads.

“We don’t have to go back yet, do we?” Breakdown said.

“No, not just yet.”

* * *

“Progress report,” Onslaught said as he ticked items from a holo-sheet.

Vortex didn’t look up from his crate of small arms. “Phase one is complete,” he said. “I’ll move to phase two when I’m sure he’s settled.” He gave the contents another scan. “There’s a mark five displacer pistol missing.”

“A casualty of Brawl’s over-enthusiasm,” Onslaught said. “It’s in case twelve B awaiting repair. Have you had any trouble from his commander?”

“Nope.” Vortex loaded the weapons back into the crate. “I think they’ve exchanged words, but I’ve heard nothing from him so far.”

“Good.” Onslaught said. “If you do, refer him to me.”

Vortex looked up. “Can’t I have some fun with him first?”

“I think you’re having enough of that already.”

Vortex laughed. He fastened the lid to the crate, and moved on to the ammo cache. “You can never have too much fun,” he said, but Swindle chose that moment to appear, and Onslaught made no further comment.


	3. Chapter 3

Dead End flattened himself against the wall, giving Astrotrain and Blitzwing space to pass. They needed it; the bound and crumpled Autobots who trudged between them did not go willingly. They struggled, twisting in their chains, kicking and biting every step of the way. Dead End couldn’t take his eyes off them. It was the pair from the news, scratched up and dripping.

He arrived at Vortex’s room heated and dizzy, and very lightly spattered.

“Well look at you,” Vortex said. “What happened?”

Dead End seated himself with as much dignity as he could muster and tugged a cloth from a compartment. “I came across Astrotrain bringing in some prisoners,” he said, gently dabbing at the little dots of energon. “Do you still interrogate all those captured?”

“Sure,” Vortex replied. “Do you want a hand with that?”

Dead End nodded. “Thank you.” He passed Vortex a cloth, and shivered as the Combaticon got to work. “Do you, uh… What do you do to them?”

“I talk to them.” Vortex worked his way around Dead End’s shoulders and neck, each touch bring a glow to his spark and a tingle to his sensor net. “I tell them what they need to hear. They tell me what I want to know.”

“Then what?” Dead End rolled his head, giving Vortex space to work.

“Depends,” Vortex said. “Hold still.” He straddled Dead End’s lap, moving the cloth from his neck to the top of his helm.

“Depends on what?” Dead End tried to calm his ventilation, to stop himself from moving. Was this a prelude to a physical interface? Could he even do that, before they’d even linked up?

“Depends on what Megsy’s got planned for them,” Vortex said.

“Do you ever get to kill them?”

Vortex’s engine purred and he leaned close to Dead End’s audial. “Sometimes,” he whispered. “Do you want to see?”

Dead End nodded so fast he caught the flange of Vortex’s helm. Vortex laughed at his apology, or maybe with him, Dead End wasn’t sure, but the kiss he received was deep and warm and reassuring. Vortex settled, pinning his legs, and for a moment Dead End though they would hook up there and then, but Vortex continued to clean him, mopping up each droplet of energon before it could mar his paint.

Getting to the bunk was a protracted process involving lingering kisses and long caresses, and the awkward indecision on Dead End's part about where exactly to put his hands. He settled on Vortex’s shoulders, and experienced a small moment of triumph when he found that the rotary liked being stroked on the back of the neck.

It was followed by a small moment of unease when Vortex straddled him on the bunk, a certain part of his anatomy radiating rather a lot of heat onto Dead End’s spike cover.

“I’m not sure,” Dead End began, and stopped himself. He didn’t need to be sure, he just needed to open up and let Vortex take the lead. But Vortex seemed to understand, and shuffled back.

“Whatever you want,” he said, “it’s all fine.”

Dead End wriggled, trying to ease the pressure behind his cover. “I want to connect.”

* * *

Vortex showed him Backdraft. The room was clean, a spartan cell deep in the bowels of Decepticon High Command. Backdraft hunched crying in a chair, his paint scratched by his own nervous hands, his left optic cracked due to an abortive attempt at escape.

Vortex hadn’t touched him. Not yet.

Joist had. She lounged in the corner, arms folded, antennae twitching. She’d been Backdraft’s handler before his attempted defection. Now she was his jailor, and she hadn’t been able to resist putting a few dents in his sorry frame.

In the here-and-now Dead End went limp. Waiting, feeling; he turned his optics off, attentive and immersed.

When Vortex fastened Backdraft to the platform Dead End’s fans kicked on. When Joist came to say her fond farewells, with a punch to the face and a spit of Insecticon venom in his one good eye, Dead End shivered. When she left, his engine stalled; and when Vortex brought out the circular saw he writhed.

Vortex would have loved to have taken him. To sink down onto his spike or part his pretty red thighs and light him up from the inside. Either would do, he wasn’t picky, but Dead End hadn’t seemed keen on filling him, and it was too early to judge whether it was the product of virgin anxiety or if that hardware just wasn’t for him.

Dead End certainly wasn’t adverse to a little coercion. Backdraft went strutless at the sight of the saw. He stopped trying to reach his eye and started yammering on about making a deal, about the price of his life. He strained at his bonds, and drew his covers back to bare himself.

Tensing, Dead End grabbed a hold of Vortex’s arm. His fans notched up a gear, his hips bucked.

Backdraft offered his valve, his mouth, his spark. Anything to buy himself some time, to make Vortex think he was better off alive. Vortex had no reason to resist. He brought himself slowly to readiness, exploring every inch of his captive’s frame.

“I like you,” he lied. “I’ve always been fond of you.” He used a slim iron rod to probe into Blackdraft’s valve, just in case he’d been fitted with a device that Vortex would not find entertaining. Nothing.

He hooked them up; no way he was missing the slow slide of his spike in that tight, slick space. Dead End howled as the data flooded in. He squirmed under Vortex, bringing his hands over his mouth.

Backdraft pretended to like it, but the gunk in his eye was hissing and his dents were aching, and the aphrodisiac properties of fear only took him so far.

They took Dead End all the way. He clung to Vortex, shivering through an overload that had as much to do with the rape of a prisoner as it had with the way Vortex held him, pinned and helpless.

Shame tainted his energy field, but was soon overcome by a fresh wash of arousal as Vortex - still buried in his plaything’s valve - brought out the tools to remove his armour.

By the time he was finished, Dead End was as strutless a mess as Backdraft had been. His spike had slipped free, and his conventional hardware had brought him to the brink of a second overload. Backdraft screamed one last time and Dead End howled.

It took him a while to recover. Vortex smoothed his bodywork, investigating his textures and tastes. His polish was Earth-made, cloying on the tongue but hardly unpleasant. Dead End groaned, his hands still over his face, then froze.

“I… I didn’t mean, that wasn’t meant to,” he babbled, trying to reach between their bodies, to pack away his spike.

Vortex grabbed his wrist and pressed it gently but firmly into the bedding by his head. “Let me,” he said, and reached down to palm the Stunticon’s cord. Dead End’s optics widened, his energy field a tangle of lust and panic.

“It’s OK,” Vortex told him. “I know what I’m doing.” He eased his hand around the spike, tugging and stroking. The tip leaked, and he smeared the slick fluid over the head. Dead End whined, balling his hands to fists and trying to rock his hips.

“It’s meant to be good,” Vortex whispered. “Does that feel good?”

Dead End’s answer came between gritted teeth. “It’s intense!” he managed, and Vortex eased up a little. But it was already too late; Dead End grunted, and came copiously over his own beautiful chest. Vortex sat up, and Dead End looked down at himself, growing horror in his expression.

“I’m filthy!”

“We’ll clean you up,” Vortex said. He grabbed a towel and mopped up most of the mess. “I don’t have a private shower, but we can use the one around the corner. It’s usually empty.”

Dead End nodded, and let his head fall back.

* * *

Under the spray with a white foam of cleanser slipping down his body, Dead End began to feel less like he was made of rubber. He had a way to go before he felt like metal again, but at least he could stand without having to lean against the wall.

And, he had to admit, having a rotary to scrub his joints and soap him down was very pleasant indeed.

Vortex was the picture of solicitude, asking numerous questions and acting on the responses. A few times he got carried away, but Dead End couldn’t exactly object. There was a fine line between cleaning and tactile interface, and Dead End did not have a problem with tactile interface.

“Will they give you the new prisoners soon?” he asked. He tipped his head back under the spray, inviting Vortex to pay more attention to his throat.

“Mmm, probably,” Vortex said. “Who did they catch?”

“I don’t know,” Dead End said, looping his arms over Vortex’s shoulders. “Can I see them?”

Vortex laughed, the sound tickling into Dead End’s throat. “You want to watch?”

“Of course. I want to be there. When they die.” Dead End clung harder, and Vortex pushed him back, pressing him to the wall. “I want to feel it,” Dead End said. “From them.”

“Memory’s not enough for you?” Vortex teased.

“They’re going to die anyway. I’m not altering the inevitable.”

Vortex laughed again as the spray dwindled and the warm air began to flow. “They’ll have a public execution,” he said. “All the others have. I don’t know if we’ll be able to do this.”

Dead End yawned, his exhaustion turning quickly to drowsiness. “Find a way?” he said, and Vortex smiled.

* * *

“You’re different,” Breakdown commented. He glared at Dead End from his seat in the observation hub. Careful to make no sudden movements, Dead End took the chair next to him and offered his wrist cable.

“I’m me,” he said. “You can check.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Breakdown swung his feet. In front of him the monitors showed various views of the Decepticon base, changing every few seconds. “Did you… y’know. With that Combaticon?”

Dead End sighed. “Would it matter if I had?”

“Maybe not to you,” Breakdown said. “Motormaster doesn’t like it.”

“Motormaster can blow smoke up his own exhaust,” Dead End said. “It’s not against regulations.”

Breakdown’s jaw dropped. “You like him.”

“That is neither here nor there.”

“You do, you _like_ him. Wildrider didn’t like him. He just wanted somewhere to click his cable.”

“That’s vulgar,” Dead End said.

“Wildrider was watching you through the team bond. You were interfacing.”

“He what?” Now it was Dead End’s turn to glare. “It’s not against regulations!”

“So you said.” Breakdown scowled. “You don’t like interfacing.”

“I appreciate a hardline connection,” Dead End said. He twisted his chair to face his team mate. “And the… that time we… were together. That was hardly unpleasant.”

Breakdown’s scowl got worse.

Dead End scowled back. “And don’t think I don’t know what’s going on between you and Motormaster!”

“What? And you say _I’m_ delusional.”

“I’ve never called you delusional,” Dead End stated. “That was Drag Strip.”

“You think it though.” Breakdown huffed.

“Maybe,” Dead End said, and flicked his optics to the monitors so as not to see his colleague’s expression. “It depends what you’re encouraging Motormaster to do. You’re dead set against team interface sessions, you’re constantly running away. But every time I look for you, you’re with him. It doesn’t make sense.”

Breakdown kicked the underside of the desk. “Now who’s using the team bond to spy on people?”

“It’s not spying,” Dead End said. “What do you do together?”

“We talk,” Breakdown said coldly.

“You talk.”

“So it’s like that,” Breakdown said. “I have to dispose everything to you, but you won’t tell me scrap.”

“Dis _close_ ,” Dead End corrected. “And there’s nothing to tell.”

“Then I have nothing to tell either,” Breakdown said. “You did lock the door, didn’t you?”

Dead End sighed and pushed out of his seat. There was no point in telling him yes. “I’ll check.”

* * *

Motormaster filled the doorway of the Combaticon rec room, feet squarely planted, arms crossed.

Vortex gave him the briefest glance, before turning back to the TV.

“I’m here to parlay,” Motormaster rumbled.

“Uh-huh?” Vortex cancelled his call to Onslaught. “You do realise we’re on the same side, right? That pointy thing on our shoulders, it’s called a _faction insignia_.”

“Don’t be facetious.” Motormaster took a step into the room, glancing around. Probably checking for hidden Combaticons. “Turn that thing off, I want to talk to you.”

“Uh, no,” Vortex said. “Firstly, that _thing_ is recording ‘The A Team’ for Brawl, and secondly I don’t appreciate your attitude. If you’ve come to parlay, you can take a seat and keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“I outrank you,” Motormaster began.

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” Vortex said. “I was fighting for the cause when you were nothing but a lump of cold dead ore waiting to be mined. You’ll have some respect for your elders, or you’ll get the hell out of our rec room.”

“Or what?” That massive engine ratched up a notch. “You’ll call your commander?”

“Vector Sigma! What the frag is wrong with you? Just sit down and be polite for scrap’s sake. Have some coolant or something.” Vortex waved in the general direction of the refrigeration unit.

Motormaster harumphed, but he did pull over one of the straight-backed chairs sized for Onslaught and Blast Off. Sitting stiffly, he glared at the TV. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

“To talk to me, you already said.” Vortex turned down the sound, and twisted on the sofa, leaning back against the arm. “So talk.”

“What are you doing with Dead End?”

“Nothing he doesn’t want.”

Motormaster balled his fists, but remained seated. “I expect clear answers,” he said. “Have you… interfaced with him.”

“You say it like it’s dirty,” Vortex said. “Sure, we swapped cables.”

“And?”

Vortex threw up his hands. “And what? You want a blow-by-blow?”

“What else did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything _to_ him,” Vortex said. “We swapped a bit of energy, it was fun.”

“Fun.” It may not have been possible to be more deadpan than Motormaster was at that moment.

Vortex brought his legs onto the sofa and hooked an arm over the back. “Yeah. Fun.”

“Why him?”

It was time for Vortex to pull an incredulous face, grateful he’d left his mask off. “You have seen him, right?”

Motormaster’s fists clenched, then the tension released with an obvious effort of will. “You want me to believe that a rare aerial frametype would have genuine interest in a groundframe?”

“Let me lay it out for you,” Vortex replied. “I like interfacing. I like interfacing with people who like interfacing with me. Are you with me so far?”

“I warned you about being facetious,” Motormaster said.

Vortex copied the stern set of his lips. “And I should have warned you about being deliberately obtuse. I’m trying to make you understand. We got talking because we have a shared interest. One thing led to another, and he asked me if I’d like to connect. So we connected.”

“You seduced him.”

“We had a consensual and very fulfilling frag. Now will you please leave it alone?”

“No,” Motormaster said. “What interest do you think you have in common?”

Vortex slumped. “That’s it, I give up. I’m calling him.”

“I thought you said you could get by without your commander?” Motormaster said with obvious glee.

“I’m not calling _him_ ,” Vortex said, bringing up the comms on his arm and typing in a number. “I’m calling Dead End. You’re his superior, he can sort this out.”

Motormaster lurched from his chair and seized Vortex by the arm. “You will do no such thing,” he snarled. Then his jaw dropped and his optics flared, and he came to a dead halt. “What are you doing?”

“Making you let go,” Vortex said as the comm cut off. He eased the blade deeper, using it to leverage a gap between two of the overlapping plates on Motormaster’s throat. “That’s it, now take a step back, nice and steady. Good. Now why don’t you sit back down again and we’ll talk about this like civilised people.”

Motormaster rubbed at his throat. “You’re hardly civilised.”

Vortex settled back again. “Not always,” he conceded. “But I’m not the one throwing my weight around.”

“You will stop fraternising with my troops.”

“No I won’t,” Vortex said. He waited, giving Motormaster the chance for a comeback, but all he did was fume. “Bruticus is loyal,” Vortex continued. “And isn’t it good for a young combiner to interface with a loyal, experienced member of an allied team? The regulations say so. Megatron says so.”

The fuming increased, but still Motormaster made no reply.

Vortex stared at him, while the TV prattled on in the background.

It was a good hundred astroseconds before Motormaster spoke. “If you damage him, I will kill you.”

Vortex flashed him a friendly smile. “I’m not gonna hurt him.”

Motormaster stood. “I’m not done. If you make any attempt to disrupt my team, _I will kill you_. Do you understand?”

“For frag sake, sure, yes, I get it.”

“Good,” Motormaster said, and stormed out, leaving Vortex alone with the TV. Vortex waited until he heard the outer door slam before he started laughing.

* * *

That night Dead End was mildly disconcerted to hear the lock on his door being hacked. He sighed and turned his optics offline. It would be Wildrider, come to play a prank, or Drag Strip unable to sleep and in need of an audience. Or perhaps Breakdown, but his nocturnal visits had ceased when he’d started disappearing with Motormaster. 

The door opened, slowly, quietly, and just as quietly closed. A weight settled on the bunk by Dead End’s head; hands, by the feel of it, Wildrider leaning down.

But it wasn’t Wildrider’s voice soft in his audials. “I know you’re awake. I have something for you.”

Dead End’s optics flashed on. “You can’t be here,” he whispered. “If Motormaster finds you-”

“Motormaster won’t be a problem,” Vortex whispered back. “Do you want your gift? It’s time sensitive.”

If he’d been truthful with himself, Dead End could easily have made space for Vortex there and then, to interface in clandestine silence as the night progressed to morning and his team recharged in adjacent rooms. 

A shiver of charge warmed his core and stirred his spike. He swallowed and nodded. “Show me.”

Several times on the long walk across the base Dead End pondered the advisability of following Vortex anywhere. Each time it gave him a thrill, to think he could be walking to his doom, that the surprise might be his last moment alive.

The thrill did not decrease as they left the barracks and headed to an area Dead End had only visited once before. 

He only spoke when they were in the shade of the gate. “What did you mean when you said Motormaster won’t be a problem?” he asked. 

Vortex grinned. “He came to see me today. He said if I hurt you he’d kill me.”

“That’s… thoughtful of him.” Dead End studied the flash of Vortex’s fingers, committing the pattern to memory.

The lock clicked, the gate swinging in. “It’s as close as he’ll get to giving his blessing,” Vortex said. 

They passed through a second gate and a heavy, reinforced door before they even approached the cells. On the final threshold, Vortex paused. “What I have for you here,” he said, “it’s just a taste. You can have the pick of my datafiles later, OK?”

Dead End nodded. He wasn’t in full possession of the facts, but that was fine. The less he knew, the more the uncertainty made his sensors tingle. 

“OK.” Vortex gave him the strangest look. Dead End couldn’t fathom it. Then Vortex unlocked the cell, and they were in. 

A chill licked his spark, and Dead End headed inside. The light flickered a while before properly turning on, showing a gleam of fluid, a glimmer of broken glass. Nothing was smooth that should have been, nothing whole that could be broken. It was like a frame from a disaster movie, or the staccato flash of crime scene photographs in the American cop shows Breakdown liked to watch.

"Go on," Vortex said, giving him a nudge. "Why don't you take a look."

Dead End swallowed, stepped closer. Oil dripped from the low bench onto the floor. The Autobot lay on his back, his brand scratched out, his face missing. One arm dangled, a pool of energon glistening in his palm.

"Is that-" Dead End reached for the dusty white thigh, holding his hand just close enough to register the weak push of the prisoner's energy field. "Is he dying?"

"Slowly," Vortex replied. "He’ll make it to his execution, Hook’s seen to that."

Gingerly, Dead End tapped the armour. Sideswipe was dirty, but that couldn't be helped."Can... I mean... May I?"

Vortex crouched in the puddle of oil. He uncoupled the Autobot's chest, releasing a wavering light like the reflection of the Sun on water. "You can do anything you want."

For a moment, all Dead End wanted was to watch. The spark rippled, cracks as black as midnight forming and healing and forming again. He touched without thinking, sinking his finger into the swirling corona, and hissed as his paint bubbled.

He shook his hand, wincing and bracing for derision. But Vortex wasn't laughing. Vortex was peeling back a dressing from the Autobot's angular hip. The mesh bent, little chips of filler falling like snow, landing on the lightly dented silver of the mech's plug and port array.

"I can't give you his death," Vortex said, tugging out a cable and blowing on the end to get rid of the dust. "Have you got a cloth?"

Of course he had a cloth. Dead End carefully cleaned the plug, running the cloth the full length of the cable. The Autobot didn't so much as whimper. He looked half dead already, lying limp with his broken face turned away. If Dead End blurred his vision, he could imagine that the edges of his armour were already beginning to dull.

To his surprise, Vortex plugged in first, a cable for the Autobot and one for Dead End. He should have known Vortex would guide him. It wasn't as though Dead End knew what to do. Hacking a dying mech wasn't exactly one of his pre-installed skills.

"Remember," Vortex said. "Just a taste."

But it was so much more than that. Confusion, pain, a fever-fear so heady Dead End stumbled. Vortex caught him, pressed a brief kiss to his lips, then held him lightly, supporting him as he leaned slowly forward. 

This time the touch was acid, venom, it was a splinter gouging his armour, an iron rod in his own spark sinking slowly to the core. Sideswipe slipped from consciousness, but the interface did not die. It was automated feedback, the unfelt responses of a sensor net disconnected from a sentient mind. Vortex lifted Dead End's arm, tugging his limp burnt fingers from the caustic ember of Sideswipe's spark.

Dead End groaned and thrust himself into the interface. Sideswipe was out cold, his mind a haze of vermilion, streaked with black, like his spark. Dead End chased the feeling of nothingness, the absence of thought, of impulse or dream. If he focused he could feel the waning of the Autobot's life. He could feel death approaching.

He surfaced gasping to the echo of Vortex's whisper: "That's enough." Dead End’s cable was loose, his connector unplugged. His vision swam, and he clung to Vortex while his engine revved and his armour rattled.

He didn't remember leaving the cell, but somehow they were in a small neat room, in the close concrete confines of a guard station. Dead End's cables were still bare, his connectors slotting into Vortex’ ports. He whined as Vortex lifted him, a flush of heat expanding the clasps that kept his spike cover in place. He leaned back, spreading his legs to wrap them around Vortex's waist, chasing the ghost of creeping death still flickering through the interface. 

They climaxed together with Vortex's mouth on his throat, and he nodded shivering at an unvoiced request. "Anything," he croaked. "Anything you want."

The pressure left his throat, his waist. He didn't dare reboot his vision, but allowed his spike cover to pull back, his cord jutting up and into a cloud of sensation the complete opposite to the shock of cool air he had been expecting. 

Heat enveloped him, rich and stirring. He risked a glance, but all he could see was the top of Vortex's head. Dead End sighed and tensed against discharge, but his cord merely shuddered as a lance of pleasure speared his circuits. 

He couldn't tell exactly what Vortex was doing, but it was rippling and wet and brilliant, and he never wanted it to stop. But the end was so close already, and he winced as he came, the bloom of overload tainted by the thought of getting _that_ on his armour. He gasped as Vortex laughed around him, and groaned at the renewed pressure, the tight squeeze as Vortex sucked him clean. 

It was deliciously vulgar. Especially when Vortex pulled ever so slightly back, to lap the last drops of fluid away with his tongue. 

“I could get used to this,” Dead End said without thinking, and Vortex grinned. 

* * *

Back in the safe seclusion of the rotary’s room, Dead End wondered if he should return the favour, if he even could. But Vortex led him to the bunk and pushed him slowly down, connecting them swiftly, gently, showing him his options. Dead End chose at random, falling into the memory the moment it began to play. Warm concrete, cool metal, the distant song of laser fire. Vortex kissed him, pushed into him, and for a moment he froze, his own valve clenching painfully tight. But the insertion was smooth, the stretch a thrill, and he realised with a flood of relief that it was only the memory. 

It was so strange. Dead End found himself floating a little outside total immersion. The nameless minibot’s legs were spread, his back against a wall and knees over Vortex’s arms. This wasn’t the rough and grating failure of interface with Motormaster, or the uncomfortable agony of hope that had overwhelmed Backdraft before his death. It was closer to the fumbling wet instant of pleasure Dead End had gained, almost by accident, with Breakdown, but the two were so different as to be incomparable. 

The minibot was groaning, head back and cord leaking. Vortex coaxed open his chest, and Dead End wondered why he didn’t just use his interrogator’s trick. But the minibot willingly bared his spark, and by the time he knew what was coming, it was too late. 

Dead End stiffened, clawing at the bed covering. This overload was weaker, but lasted longer, pulsing on through his spark as the minibot slumped and stuttered, as his amour turned grey and the recording faded to white. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Vortex said softly, and Dead End forced his optics to reboot. He opened his mouth to reply, but had no idea what to say. His sensor net still resonated with the mingled numbness and pleasure left over from the death of the stranger. 

Vortex flopped down beside him, running a hand over his abdominal armour, then across to his panel to disconnect them. “Gorgeous,” he said. 

“Would you…” Dead End swallowed. “What would you like to do now?” He winced as he realised the wetness that registered on the inside of his valve cover was genuine, and not a leftover memory. His valve clenched again, and he wished Vortex would just pin him and take him, and what did it matter if it was awkward or painful, at least it wouldn’t have been with Motormaster. 

“I would like to not move,” Vortex said and yawned. “Sleep maybe. And don’t think about going anywhere.” He tugged Dead End to him, a heavy arm over his waist. “You’re staying here.” 

Dead End found himself smiling. “I don’t get a say in that?”

Vortex nuzzled him, chin on his shoulder, warm air on the side of his neck. “Do you want to leave?”

Dead End’s smile widened. “No.”


	4. Chapter 4

A day of training, an evening on patrol. Dead End kept quiet, tailing Drag Strip through the ruins of Iacon until his tires were white with ash from the new factories and every seam and joint was clogged with grime.

He took his time in the shower before trudging to his room. He collapsed on the bunk. His frame was exhausted, but his mind raced. Thoughts of Sideswipe popped up each time he felt he might be able to sleep, thoughts of the creeping certainty of death, and the fierce vitality of his overloads. He leaned his back against the wall, tried to imagine he was in Vortex’s room, the rotary draped over him, the only sounds the soft hiss of their ventilation.

Vortex was off base. On Earth, perhaps. Maybe the Moon. The other side of Shockwave’s space bridge, where short-range comms would not work.

Dead End’s fingers itched, his burnt paint flaking. He should have gone to Hook, got something to boost his nanites. But what would he say? Better to keep quiet, to scrub himself to bare metal and touch up the paint himself. It was nothing he hadn’t done before.

Perhaps Vortex would do it for him. When he came home. 

Whenever that would be.

He dozed lightly for several hours, coming awake at every sound only to slip back into a fitful light sleep. His team mates clattering home, Wildrider stage whispering, Breakdown yelling at them to be quiet. His limbs felt fizzy, his head light. He thought of Sideswipe’s spark and that midnight crack growing as though death had already half claimed him. A death he could taste, could know. Not secondhand, but up close and personal. He thought of Vortex’s fingers on the control pad, typing in the code while Dead End watched out of the corner of his eye consigning the pattern directly to hard storage. 

He briefly accessed the team bond. His team was in recharge, even Breakdown. Stilling his ventilation, he slid off the bunk and slowly unlocked his door. 

He told himself he didn’t know where he was going. It was just a drive, that was all, across the barracks for a few quick laps around the track they used for speed trials. He wasn’t going anywhere he wasn’t supposed to be. 

He kept telling himself that as he reached the first of the touch pads and typed the number Vortex had inadvertently shown him. He was still telling himself it was just a detour as he passed the empty guard station and slunk further inside the prison block. 

This was Combaticon territory. At least Dead End thought it was. Hoped it was. He scanned cameras as he passed, their lights out and no buzz of electricity humming through their wires. Had the cameras been on when he’d come here with Vortex? He couldn’t remember. Would Vortex have brought him if they were?

Did it matter?

He was dead anyway. No humiliation, no punishment had any substance when compared to their inevitable fate. Why not indulge himself while he was still capable?

Dead End inputted the code to Sideswipe’s cell, and froze. The bot was grey, crumpled, laying in shadow in the corner of his cell. Dead End ran over, and dropped to his knees. But no, he wasn’t really grey. Not wholly. He just looked it lying there in the gloom. 

To be sure, Dead End flashed his headlights over the bot, seeing a satisfying gleam of red amid the scratches. 

“Can you hear me?” he whispered. 

Sideswipe didn’t move. His energy field was faint, its fluctuations weak. Dead End plucked a cloth from a his hip compartment and wiped it over Sideswipe’s chest. He jimmied the opening, gasping as the sparklight flooded out. He glanced at the door, then up at the corners of the ceiling. No company, no cameras. 

“It’ll all be over soon,” he said, running the cloth a little further. Sideswipe’s legs were filthy, silver gleaming on his pocked black thighs. Dead End swallowed; had someone been here before him? There was a gap between Sideswipe’s legs where his port cover hadn’t quite closed flush. 

“You want it to be over, don’t you?” Dead End whispered. “It’s OK, you can want that.” He wiped his own hands, and traced the edges of Sideswipe’s spark chamber. Just a touch, that’s all he wanted. A look, a touch and he’d go for his drive. 

His fingertips danced at the very edge of the corona. He watched the light, how it whirled and skittered, how the black cracks formed and split, and gold flecks spun in their wake. He took one of his input cables, peeled back the dressing on Sideswipe’s side, and plugged in. 

He shuddered, suddenly cold, and waited for the interface to establish. His optics drifted back to the door, and the thin wedge of paler shadow from the corridor’s dim lights. Skideswipe’s spark flickered, the interface dull, inactive. And of course it wouldn’t be active, Sideswipe wasn’t conscious. There were no firewalls to remove, no security measures to bypass, but equally there was no clear pathway to his sensor net, no obvious route to taste - again - the energy of his spark. 

Dead End’s engine growled, his own spark swelling uncomfortably in his chest. He caressed Sideswipe’s corona, pulsing his energy field ever so softly, plucking at the little golden flecks. There was no way in, not through his cables. He could feel the shape of Sideswipe’s dreaming, the electrical sizzle of his thoughts, but couldn’t decipher their meaning. They were a code, intimate and terrible, a love letter to death itself that Dead End had no way of reading. 

With another quick glance at the empty doorway, Dead End unclipped his chest. Just a taste, he thought, as his fingertips skittered over his own spark casing. Just a quick brush of coronas to feel what it was like. 

He hauled Sideswipe level, using the bot’s broken arm to steady him. His own healthy sparklight spilled vibrant, whole, an overwhelming violet glow which seemed to cast Sideswipe’s orange embers into shadow. He bent low and tugged his corona over the surface of Sideswipe’s spark. 

It was like a kick to the core, a molten bloom opening inside him. Dead End sighed, and tried again, pushing closer this time, feeling his corona split and little tendrils reach out to the damaged life below him. Then Sideswipe bucked, and Dead End yelped, scurrying back, both hands over his chest.

Only automatic, he told himself as Sideswipe fell back to the floor, intert. He wasn’t waking up, just reacting. 

Slowly Dead End returned. He held still, so they were almost touching. His corona split again, those tendrils coalescing as though from fire, little nubs of energy pulsing up from Sideswipe’s dying spark. The tug was like an electromagnet, like the most delicious thirst. It was like every urge to interface he had ever experienced rolled into one. 

He placed his hands on Sideswipe’s shoulder and hip in case he bucked again, and pushed down. 

Dead End had never merged before, not like this. Combination was different, a process of circuits and cables and strong solid linkages. This was like immersing his mind in warm oil, like burning his sensors in acid and drowning his spark in lava. It cut him deep, made him shiver and quake.

He sighed, pressing on, taking his optics offline and focusing entirely on his spark. There were warnings in his HUD, notifications and messages. He tried to dismiss them, but they kept flashing back ever more urgent as a beeping sounded deep in his mind. He did his best to ignore them, chasing the deep pulsing of Sideswipe’s life force, putting his all into feeling it, knowing it. 

The notifications kept coming, and he snarled. Dizzy and distant, they didn’t matter. What did anything matter? He authorised them all, not caring what they did. Thinking was hard. Frag, thinking was unecessary, feeling was everything. Sideswipe’s vents hissed, and Dead End leaned his full weight on the bot’s chest, feeling their cores begin to mesh. 

The overload was like nothing he had experienced before. Great rolling waves of pleasure hit him, a togetherness overwhelmed him that was so very distant from the sensation of being combined. He waited for the overmind to take him, but there was no overmind, no Menasor, no death either waiting to claim him. Just the cold and gritty floor and a draft from Sideswipe’s vents playing across his spark. 

Dead End hauled himself until he was sitting up, one hand on the floor for balance. Sideswipe was still unconscious, still ruined and weak. His systems operated at 0.6% above stasis lock, and his fluid reserves were dry. 

Dead End shook his head, and unclipped his connector. The sparkmerge must have done something, unlocked some data via the connection. Sideswipe’s vents stilled as his internal temperature fell. Dead End stared, leaning forward to gently close his armour. For one stupid, reckless moment he hoped they were bonded. He _wanted_ them to be bonded. He and the condemned, joined at the spark until death came to claim them both. 

Or Sideswipe alone. Dead End had read about sparkbonding, had consumed romance novels on ancient data slugs from the Golden Age, had devoured medical papers and philosophical treatises. Only in myth and fiction did the death of one drag the other to inevitable doom. Still, he could dream.

Perhaps he should try again. He grabbed the crude tool Vortex had given him and went to slip it once more into the gap. 

“The frag are you doing in here?”

Dead End leapt to his feet, guns out and his every strut trembling. He stammered nonsense syllables, blinded by the light from the open doorway. Someone stood in the door, a bulky shadow he couldn’t make out.

“Hey, coghead, I asked you a question,” the shadow spat. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I just… I…” Dead End clutched his chest. “I…”

“For frag sake!” The dark bulk lumbered forward and shoved Dead End towards the door. Brawl, it was Brawl. Again. Why did it have to be Brawl?

“I get it,” Brawl said. “You been talking to people, you slipped Swindle a few creds and he give you the codes.” He growled. “Always on my watch. I’mma slap him from here to Kalis and back. C’mon, hot shot, move your aft.”

“You… you don’t understand,” Dead End began, but a spear lanced his spark and he doubled.

Brawl tugged him close, half dragging him. He kicked the cell door shut behind them. “Ain’t nothing wrong with it,” he said, “long as it’s on Swindle’s watch. You got that? _Swindle_.”

“I didn’t,” Dead End said. “It hurts!”

“Whassa matter?” Brawl asked without sounding remotely as though he cared. “Fraggin’ give you surges?” He hauled Dead End onto his shoulder. After a queasy minute of jolting and jiggling Dead End slid off again onto a bench in the guard room. The same guard room he and Vortex had… They had… He bent over, hissing. 

Brawl tapped his face. “You ain’t dying,” he said. “So you got caught? So what. Hey, ain’t you Vortex’s set of wheels?”

Dead End nodded fiercely. Vortex’s yes, that was right. He was Vortex’s set of wheels and Brawl should protect him. Combiners stuck together, right? “Where,” he choked, wincing. “Where is he?”

“That’s classified,” Brawl said. “You ain’t gonna die, are you?”

“I fucking wish!” Dead End moaned, throwing his head back so far his neck creaked. 

Brawl grabbed his face and turned it, his visor close. “What’s wrong with you?”

“N-nothing!” Dead End panted. “Nothing’s wrong! It’s OK, I mean it. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brawl said, and released him. He stilled a moment, his visor flickering. “Tex says you gotta stay here until you can walk straight.” He snickered. “You must’a given it to him good.”

“Given… huh?”

Brawl made a weird gesture with his hand. “Pretty, weren’t he?” he said. “It’s what they all say. Nice racing frame like him. Not my kinda bot, but eh. Whatever gets you going.”

“Your kind of bot?”

Brawl laughed and dropped his aft on a stool. He fiddled with a few dials on the control panel. “I like tanks,” he said. “Big tanks. That Strika, _frag_ , she can carry me away any day.”

Dead End forced himself to nod. “She’s… very capable,” he managed. 

Brawl roared with laughter and slapped Dead End hard on the shoulder. “I gotta do a walk-around,” he said. “You’re gonna get better and sneak off, and you ain’t gonna be here when I get back, you got that?”

“Y-yes,” Dead End said. “Yes, I’ve got that.” He took a deep vent, his spark spinning. Brawl gave him a sceptical look, then shrugged and left.

* * *

Monitor duty was a blessing. Dead End sat stiffly, pretending to watch the screens. Each showed a part of the vast complex of loading bays. None showed anything interesting. 

His spark hurt. His head hurt. Wildrider spinning in his chair and grating on his every nerve hurt. 

“For the love of Primus, just go on patrol!” he snapped after two full breems of spinning and squeaking. 

“What’s crawled up your tailpipe?” Wildrider sneered. “Oh yeah, you’re not gettin’ any. Mystery solved.” He spun around again. “When’s your rotary getting home? I wanna know when you’re gonna stop being such a pothole.”

“ _You’re_ a pothole,” Dead End grumbled. He shivered, chilly all of a sudden. 

“Whatever.” Wildrider tapped a rhythm on the console, not even pretending to watch the monitors. Then he stopped, giving Dead End a new kind of look, and grinned. “You wanna hop on and have a quick ride?” he said. 

“What? No!” Dead End’s optics narrowed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? We’re team, we’re meant to screw around! And I mean with each other.” Wildrider leaned back and patted his lap. “Drag Strip likes it,” he said. “He ain’t gonna admit it, but the noises I can make him make...” He whistled. 

“I am well aware of the noises you make him make,” Dead End said. “Not to mention the noises _you_ make. Now can we stop talking about interfacing?”

“Awww, c’mon,” Wildrider whined. “You got some charge running up like nobody’s business, I can feel it from here.”

Dead End rounded on him. “I’ve got _surges_ ,” he snapped. “I know you’re not spying on me with the team bond because if you were you’d know that. I don’t know what you’re feeling, but it has nothing to do with me.”

“Are you for real?” Wildrider gaped. “Seriously? You’re like… you wanna frag, your status is Ready To Frag. It’s all here!” He tapped the side of his head. 

“Indeed,” Dead End said drily. 

“I’m not making this up!” Wildrider cried. “Team bond says you’re overclocked. I’m getting tingles just looking at you.”

“You can keep your tingles to yourself,” Dead End stated, and could only glare as Wildrider kicked off from the wall, his chair rolling over to bump gently into Dead End's. Dead End put up a hand, palm out, and turned his attention back to the screens. “Need I remind you that we are on duty.”

“So?” Wildrider leaned on Dead End’s armrest. “You know your copter’s not coming back until tomorrow, right?”

“Tomorrow?” Dead End turned, and Wildrider lunged forward to scoop him out of the chair. “What in the name of Primus!” He squirmed, catching Wildrider full in the side of the head, and ending up on the floor. “That was uncalled for!”

Wildrider followed him down. “Awwwww, you got a booboo? I can fix that for you.” He pounced, grinding their spike covers together. Dead End’s spark flared and his spike leapt, and arousal filled him so quickly and completely that his processors dropped all control of his limbs and he went limp. 

“Uh…” He panted, staring up at Wildrider in utter confusion. “Whu?”

“Do I turn you on?” Wildrider grinned, his sharpened denta catching the light. He looked down at Dead End’s glossy chest. “Did I ever tell you how shiny you are?”

“This is ridiculous!” Dead End planted his hands on Wildrider’s shoulders and shoved. To his surprise, Wildrider rolled easily off him, landing in a giggling heap on the floor. Scowling, Dead End stood and brushed himself down. “What’s so funny?”

“You!” Wildrider pointed, still laughing. “You’re fraggin’ copter whipped.”

The arousal ebbed as rapidly as it had arrived, replaced by that odd coldness. Dead End resisted kicking Wildrider in his idiotic head, and retrieved his chair. He shoved Wildrider’s back across the room and sat primly. 

“He’s got you good,” Wildrider snickered. He rolled to his feet, and leaned over the back of Dead End’s chair. “Does he still do that thing with his tongue? That revved my engine so hard-”

“Oh look!” said Dead End, pointing at the topmost monitor. “Unauthorised movement in bay 4. How about you go investigate.”

“Movement my aft,” Wildrider said, inspecting the suspiciously motion-free screen. 

“They’ve obviously moved out of camera range,” Dead End said. “That’s why there are two of us, remember.” His vents caught as he turned, his spark churning. “Go on, shoo! Unless you want to sit here while I go.”

Wildrider sighed and stomped to the door. “Like I’m staying here,” he said, and was gone.

* * *

The remainder of his shift passed without incident and, thankfully, without Wildrider. Motormaster called him back for some minor infraction - presumably committed before the shift had even begun - and replaced him with a singularly uncommunicative Breakdown. 

Dead End was grateful. His spark still bubbled, moving oddly in its casing. Sometimes it burned, sometimes it glowed, but mostly it was just strange. He spent a good portion of his shift browsing the medical wiki on his HUD. The list of unwanted side effects of a spark merge was long and involved, and by the time Dead End had fetched his ration and retreated to his bunk he was convinced he had all of them. 

He lay back and focused on his ventilation. His spark thrummed, plunging heat into his interface array just as it stole warmth from the rest of him, making him feel distinctly feverish. He rolled onto his front, feeling the arousal ebb and a curious numbness creep through his lines. At least it wasn’t like earlier when the pain had bent him double. 

He checked the time of Sideswipe’s execution, then checked it again to make sure it hadn’t changed. It hadn’t, and neither had Vortex’s mission status if his absence from the base’s on-site list was any indication. Still active, still unreachable. 

Dead End turned off his optics and found recharge surprisingly easy to attain.

* * *

The following day was better. His spark settled, or perhaps it didn’t and he merely became used to the ever-changing rhythm of it. The pain came and went, but dully, and he experienced it with an increasingly detached interest, as though it was happening to someone else. The arousal was worse, making his cord ache in its housing and an uncomfortable warmth settle in his valve. But it was thankfully fleeting, always gone before he could find a time or a place to relieve himself. 

It left him numb, floating light-headed above himself. He wondered which of the many nebulous and highly subjective symptoms on the wiki’s list he was experiencing. 

He didn’t want to go to visit a medic. Questions would be asked, answers would need to be provided. Better to wait, keep his head down, avoid his team, wait for Vortex. 

It was a long wait.

* * *

“I want a word with you,” Motormaster rumbled. He loomed over Vortex, blocking the doorway leading away from the shuttle bay, but made no move to touch him. Sensible, considering Onslaught was only a short distance away, supervising the unloading of Blast Off’s cargo hold. 

“Sure thing, sweetspark,” Vortex replied. “So speak.”

“Not here.”

“Yes here.” Vortex leaned against the wall, his blades slowly spinning. Alongside Blast Off’s immense alt mode, Onslaught glanced over at them. 

Motormaster scowled. “Have it your way,” he said quietly. “Dead End’s glitching. You’re going to tell me what you did to him and how to fix it, or I’mma tear off your stupid rotors and feed ‘em to the Sharkticons.”

“What _I_ did to him?” Vortex looked up into Motormaster’s less-than-happy face. “I’ve been off planet for almost an orn. He was fine when I left. Whatever happened to him was on your watch.” He drummed his fingers on the doorframe. “What, uh, _has_ happened to him?”

“You broke him,” Motormaster snarled. “That’s what happened. And don’t pretend you care, it doesn’t suit you.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Vortex said. “What happened to Dead End?”

Motormaster’s optics narrowed. He glared briefly at Onslaught - busy again ticking items off the inventory - then gave Vortex’s visor a thorough inspection. When he spoke, there was an odd edge of hope to his voice, as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “You really don’t know?” 

“Uh, yeah. I’ve been off the grid, no comms. Is Dead End ill?”

“Not… ill,” Motormaster said quietly. 

“You said I broke him,” Vortex replied, allowing his weapons to power up. “What’s broken?”

“Nothing’s broken!” Motormaster snapped, causing Onslaught to look up again. He pursed his lips, his smokestacks steaming. “There’s nothing broken, he’s just… glitching.”

“What did Hook say?” Vortex asked, thinking of Brawl’s quick contact through the team bond, the little snapshots he’d sent of Dead End laying over Sideswipe, Dead End doubled up in the guard room. 

“He hasn’t been to Hook,” Motormaster said. 

Vortex sighed. “You want me to take a look?” he said. “I’m no doctor, but I know my way around a frame.”

Motormaster’s energy field crackled, his optics a narrow purple strip. “Fine,” he spat. “But if you try anything-”

“You’ll kill me, I get it,” Vortex said. “Hey, Ons!” he called. “I’mma go do a thing for Motormaster!”

“Debrief is at fourteen hundred joors,” Onslaught called back. “Don’t be late.”

* * *

They found Dead End in the Stunticon rec room, huddled reading in a corner. His optics practically sparkled when he caught sight of Vortex, then he froze as Motormaster filed in straight after him. 

Motormaster bashed the panel to close the door. “Come here,” he said. 

“What… What’s going on?” Dead End said, clutching his datapad over his chest. “Vortex?”

“Don’t look to him,” Motormaster said. “Get over here. You’re glitching, we’re gonna find out why.”

“It’s cool,” Vortex said. “I’ve offered to take a look, see what’s going on. If that’s OK with you.” 

Motormaster gave him a look of pure loathing, but did nothing more than glare as Vortex crossed the room and took the seat next to Dead End. “Nice polish, is that new?”

“That’s irrelevant!” Motormaster growled. 

Dead End glared at him, and shifted in his seat. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said. “I drank something I shouldn’t have, that’s all. I had surges.”

“Surges my aft.” Motormaster pulled up a chair and sat, effectively penning them both in the corner. 

Vortex retraced his mask and treated Motormaster to a sharp smile. “All right,” he said, “what do you think went wrong?”

Motormaster vented deep, and Vortex could see his conflict. He knew this was a bad idea, but what other choice did he have? Go to Hook, admit there was something wrong with his team. Or he could trust his subordinate’s lover, which he obviously knew wasn’t the wisest of plans. Eventually, Motormaster answered. “It’s his status,” he said. “He’s glitching. Every time I check on him it’s something different, it doesn’t add up.”

“I’m going to need more data,” Vortex said. “What are you seeing in the team bond?”

“This is ridiculous,” Dead End interjected. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Yes there is,” Motormaster growled. “There’s everything wrong with you. One second you’re running hot, the next you’re freezing, then your spark’s malfunctioning, then it’s not. And-” he broke off, lip curling in disgust. 

“And?” Vortex prompted.

Motormaster looked down. “The team bond displays signs of extreme physical… engagement when it’s patently not the case.”

Dead End looked confused. “Engagement?”

“You know,” Motormaster shot him a stern glare. “Overcharge.”

“Arousal?” Vortex queried cheerfully, and Motormaster cringed. 

“I… I’m not… I haven’t been,” Dead End said, appealing to Vortex. 

“It’s OK,” Vortex said, enjoying the embarrassment rolling off them both. “Dead End, maybe I could plug into your medical port and take a look?”

Motormaster did not miss the quick hopeful flare of Dead End’s energy field, or the speed with which he revealed his port and turned his back to Vortex. Vortex decided to give Motormaster something else to get all het up about and leaned in to kiss the back of Dead End’s neck before he connected them. 

He used his wrist cable, but it was the most professional part of the exercise. He looped a proprietary arm around Dead End’s shoulders, and after a moment’s indecision Dead End leaned against him. 

“Firewalls down,” Vortex said. “OK, this shouldn’t hurt so tell me if it does. I’m just gonna have a little look around. Is that all right?”

Dead End nodded. 

“So what is it?” Motormaster demanded.

“I’m still looking,” Vortex said. “You’re the one who didn’t want to take this to Hook.”

Dead End shivered as Vortex accessed his databanks. “ _Can I come in?_ ” he asked via the interface. Dead End nodded, clutching Vortex’s hand where it lay on his chest. 

“You’re hurting him,” Motormaster said. 

“No he’s not,” Dead End stated. His databanks unfurled, and Vortex browsed the entries, guided by the timestamps. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for. Dead End in the Autobot’s cell, spark to spark, convulsing in sparkmerged overload. 

Dead End coughed, his core temp rising. 

“ _Clever,_ ” Vortex commented, retreating from the memory. “ _We’ll talk about this later._ ” He pinged for access to Dead End’s frame and it was granted. “Vital stats are fine,” he said aloud. “There’s some evidence of erratic spark activity, probably just a bad batch of energon.”

“Are you sure?” Motormaster said. “I’ve had bad energon before, it didn’t do this.”

“It can do all kinds of things,” Vortex said. He nuzzled Dead End’s helm. “Where did you find the stuff you drank?”

“On a drive,” Dead End said, prompted by Vortex’s silent suggestions. “I was in Rhodion, there was an old cache there.”

“You drank old energon?” Motormaster said. “Unprovenanced, uncertified old energon?”

“Um… yes? I was thirsty.”

Motormaster slapped a hand over his own face. “You’re as thick as the rest of them. Vortex, get out of him, ugh.”

“With respect,” Vortex said, “there’s a bit of internal damage. I can patch him up, though, it’s just a case of boosting his nanites.” He sent a trickle of desire into Dead End’s interface hardware. “It’ll take about three joors, I can do it tonight.”

Motomaster rolled his optics, sighing. “Fine!” he said. “Whatever. Just don’t make it worse.”

Dead End’s engine hitched, but he tugged away from Vortex, making a flicking gesture near his medical port. Vortex retreated and unclipped him. 

“Done,” he said. He gave Dead End a promising grin. “I’ll be free by eighteen hundred joors. Come find me.”

* * * 

“How did you do that?” Dead End asked as soon as he was inside Vortex’s room. “Motormaster trusted you.”

“No he didn’t,” Vortex said, locking the door and throwing himself onto the sofa. “He just didn’t want to admit there was a problem with your team bond.” He patted the seat beside him. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Dead End said. He rubbed his chest, then sat down so close to Vortex he might as well have been on top of him. He looked up. “Is this… all right?”

Vortex cupped his chin and kissed his beautiful lips. They stayed like that a while, Dead End slowly heating, slowly shifting until he was on his knees with Vortex’s hands around his waist. 

“You’re full of surprises,” Vortex said, looking up into Dead End’s bright optics. “Tell me what you were trying to do with our prisoner?”

“I wanted to feel him again,” Dead End said. “I wanted to taste it… before he goes. Before he… It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“A breem before dawn,” Vortex said. “Megatron’s holding to the old ways.”

“Who’s doing it?” Dead End asked. 

“Probably Megatron, maybe Starscream.” Vortex stroked Dead End’s chest. “You merged with him,” he said. 

Dead End nodded, leaning into the touch. “It did something,” he said. “Motormaster was right, I’ve not been… stable since. It hurt after, and it… it makes me feel like _you_ make me feel. Not all the time, on and off.”

Vortex frowned. “Were you trying to bond with him?”

“Bond? No!” Dead End shook his head. “I just wanted to merge. I… I…”

“You took his spark,” Vortex said. “You dropped your firewalls, you underwent a deep merge.”

“He wasn’t conscious!” Dead End protested. “You can’t bond with someone who doesn’t consent, all the standard texts say so!”

“Yes you can,” Vortex countered. “It’s easier when they’re dying, when they’re desperate. But a spark bond can be forced.”

“But I read-”

“You read what the Cybertronian Medical Council wanted you to read,” Vortex said. “Don’t think just because it’s a medical textbook that it’s completely objective. Forced spark bonds are a very bad idea, they’re not the kind of thing the CMC wanted just anyone doing.”

Dead End’s optics widened. “I didn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t have. I don’t know how!”

“You didn’t,” Vortex said, planting a kiss on his nose. “Not completely.”

“Not completely?” Dead End’s panic was sweet, his tense shaking delicious. 

“Your spark thinks you tried to bond, that’s why you’re glitching.” 

Dead End sat back, then collapsed onto the other end of the sofa, his knuckles in his mouth. “What am I going to tell Motormaster?”

Vortex slid to the floor and settled with his arms folded on the seat by Dead End’s chest. “You don’t have to tell him anything,” he said. “He thinks you’re in here all night while I boost your nanites and show you the kind of good time he could only dream of. By the time you leave in the morning Sideswipe will be dead and you’ll be feeling a whole lot better.”

“You make it all sound so easy.”

“It is,” Vortex said, giving Dead End’s finish a pleasant inspection. “You don’t have to worry, I’ll help you through this.” He got back onto the sofa and gathered Dead End to him. “Just promise me one thing,” he said. 

Dead End squirmed in his lap until he could look Vortex in the visor. “What’s that?”

“Next time, talk to me first.”


	5. Chapter 5

They recharged connected, warm in each other’s arms. Dead End’s equipment buzzed, sore from a succession of hardline overloads each more intense than the last. His spike thrummed softly, likewise a little worn. He hadn’t planned on using it, but Vortex had been insistent, getting down between his legs and teasing it out until that delightful wet pressure enveloped him and the bloom of heat between his legs finally blossomed. 

Dead End awoke aroused, his circuits thrilling and his spike already free. Vortex laughed softly, sleepily, at his squirming, and took him in hand. Pressure was fast to come, and Dead End arched in Vortex’s grip, straining against climax, desperate to prolong the pleasure. 

“You like that, don’t you?” Vortex said, nibbling the side of his helm. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered. Look at you.”

“I’m not… flustered!” Dead End’s hips bucked, and he pouted. “It’s almost six!”

Vortex slowed his ministrations. “Do you want to watch?” he said. “It’ll be all over the news.”

Dead End nodded, a little fluid seeping from the tip of his spike. 

“Maybe we should deal with this first,” Vortex said, and rolled Dead End onto his back. This time Dead End expected it, but the lick of Vortex’s tongue, the pressure of his mouth as he kissed and suckled was as overwhelming as it had been the previous night. Dead End threw his arms over his head and groaned low as his engine roared and he came in throbbing gouts into Vortex’s mouth. 

He squeaked as Vortex cleaned him, his cord as raw as it was satiated. He packed it away as soon as Vortex got up to re-angle the TV so they could see it from the bunk. Vortex was quick to return, wrapping his arms around Dead End from behind, holding him close and safe and tight. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked as though they weren’t connected and Dead End wasn’t already laid entirely bare before him. 

“Good,” Dead End replied. “A little hot in my spark, but I don’t know if that’s your fault.” He sent a buzz of amusement through the connection to show his intent, and Vortex laughed. 

“Not me,” he said. “Maybe you just like getting head _that_ much.”

“Shh! It’s starting!” 

Vortex chuckled, winding his fingers through Dead End’s cables, making him sigh. Everything was good. So good. It couldn’t last. Dead End’s spark lurched, and he forced himself to focus on the TV. He couldn’t see Sideswipe at first. The prisoners were hooded and cuffed, bent kneeling at the very edge of the shot. Megatron dominated the view, reading a list of charges while the transcript rolled along the bottom of the screen. 

It took forever to get to the action, and all the while Vortex’s hands wandered his frame, his energy field a constant teasing tickle. Dead End rose again to full pressure, and tried to cover his shame with his hand, but Vortex wouldn’t let him, and the feeling of exposure just added to his arousal. 

He found himself wishing Vortex would push him onto his front and nudge his thighs apart. A little force was all it would take to part his valve cover, and Vortex could take him, harsh and painful while Sideswipe died and Dead End pretended it was him in the path of the fusion cannon, him whose spark was swallowed by a brighter flame. 

He whimpered, and Vortex kissed the side of his throat, sliding his hand between Dead End’s legs. But he didn’t touch his valve cover, he didn’t press his advantage. 

Megatron finished his recitation as the camera panned to the prisoners. Dead End couldn’t tell where they were. A round plateau with the pre-dawn sky behind them. The top of a building, perhaps; he couldn’t make out any detail on the skyline. 

Starscream tugged the hoods from each of the prisoners, and stalked away out of view. Sideswipe swayed, his head lolling, and Dead End frowned. “He’s conscious,” he said. “He… They brought him back, for this. But they’ve had to prop him up, he can’t support himself.”

Vortex made a thoughtful sound and a little data flowed through the interface. 

“What’re you doing?” Dead End said, his optics fixed on Sideswipe. 

“Just watching your spark,” Vortex replied. “Don’t think about it, think about him.” 

Sideswipe’s face had been repaired. No, Dead End realised, it had been masked, the new optics false and glittering blue. Sideswipe was blind beneath them, but even if he had been able to see it wouldn’t have mattered. Whatever part of his brain united input with conscious thought was missing. He didn’t know where he was, who he was, and he lacked the capacity to know that he was missing anything. 

Dead End wondered about the others as Megatron stepped up to each in turn and blew a hole through their chests. They seemed functional, aware, but it could all have been a trick. Sideswipe knelt upright, chest out, chin up. He was the stoic warrior prepared to meet his fate. Only Dead End knew different. 

“Focus,” Vortex whispered, and Dead End nodded, swallowing. Megatron raised his arm, taking aim. Sideswipe gazed blankly up at him, understanding nothing. Then it was over and Dead End folded on his side on the berth, curling around his spark as a spear of agony ignited and was gone in an instant. He chased the after-taste, pouring his will into following that brief flash of emptiness, the blank relief that followed the blaze. But it faded too fast; he ground his denta at the loss. 

On screen the camera spun to show the crowd, cheering and whooping, Megatron standing in grim victory, Starscream looking smug. 

“Turn it off,” Dead End said, and flopped onto his back. “I bonded with him, didn’t I?”

“Not very well,” Vortex replied, climbing on top of him. “You weren’t prepared, he was too damaged. It didn’t take properly.”

Dead End humphed, watching as Vortex straddled him. “What if I had?” he said. 

“What, bonded to him?” Vortex smirked, and sent a soft, low pulse across the connection. When Dead End nodded, he leaned down to kiss him and said, “I don’t know.”

“Would it kill me?”

“I doubt it.” Vortex nibbled playfully on his lip. “But it wouldn’t be safe, not like the recordings.”

“I know,” Dead End said. “Help me do it.”

Vortex tilted his head, looking at Dead End in apparent confusion. “Do what?” 

“Bonding,” Dead End stated. “I want it. I want it more than anything. You said you’d help me if I did it again.”

Vortex smiled, shaking his head. “I said you should talk to me first.” 

“You strongly implied that you would help me.”

A jolt of pleasure made Dead End squirm, and Vortex shifted, wriggling to get Dead End’s spike between his legs. His covers had come loose, and he rubbed himself the length of the cord, slick and impossibly warm. 

“Promise me!” Dead End managed, his cord straining, his circuits alight. “I’ll do anything for you, be anything you want. Just help me, please!”

Vortex rocked his hips, and Dead End gasped, and then Vortex was on and over and around him and all Dead End could do was hold on. 

So this was what Motormaster wanted from them. This wet inevitability, this shattering of boundaries free from the cognitive oneness of combination. Dead End felt his overload long before it came, an unavoidable consequence coiling and growing until it filled him completely, taking him over and making him cry out against Vortex’s mouth.

“You’ll help me?” he gasped, as the overload went on, augmented by the interface and the needy tug of his spark. 

Vortex kissed him again, slow and languorous. “I could never say no to you.”

* * * 

“You’re worried about him,” Breakdown said. All was calm beneath Motormaster, a warm and muffled gloom. He stared at the cracked metal floor, the light from his optics showing every grain of dust. 

Motormaster shifted over him, a low growl vibrating through his chest and into Breakdown’s back. “Perhaps.”

Breakdown sighed. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Motormaster replied, and the tack of his engine shifted. “Surges, according to that blasted Combaticon.”

“Did Dead End have anything to say for himself?”

“Says he drank something he found in the ruins.”

Breakdown winced. “Why would he _do_ that? Anything could have happened to him!”

“He’s _fine_ now,” Motormaster said, as though ‘fine’ was somehow vile. “Can’t you feel it?”

“I don’t want to,” Breakdown said, a nasty taste in his mouth. “They’re being intimate, aren’t they?”

Motormaster grunted in response. 

Breakdown sneered at the ancient cold floor. “I wish they wouldn’t. I wish Vortex would hurry up and drop him like he did Wildrider.”

Another grunt, and Motormaster rolled onto his side, tugging Breakdown close to him, enfolded tight in his arms. “I know,” he said. 

“But? You sound like there’s a but.”

“I don’t think Vortex _will_ drop him,” Motormaster said. “I think he’s... “ He cut off, snarling. Breakdown cowered, and Motormaster gradually relaxed. “I think he might have… It’s too stupid, I can’t even say it.”

“Say what?” Breakdown began to squirm. “You’re scaring me. What can’t you say?”

“I… I can’t believe I’m even entertaining the idea, but he behaves like he actually _likes_ Dead End.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Breakdown said. “He has an agenda. He’s a criminal, he’s planning something.”

Motormaster let Breakdown wriggle around to face him. “We’ll see,” he said. 

“He’s trying to attack us,” Breakdown said. “He’s using Dead End to get at us. He’s planning to hurt us, he’s going to kill us, he’s-”

“Hush!” Motormaster growled. 

Breakdown’s engine revved. “But he wants Dead End!” 

“And he has Dead End,” Motormaster said, revving his own engine in warning. “Calm yourself, he’s not going to hurt us. He’s getting what he wants, and he knows I’m watching him.”

“He’s sneaky.”

“I know.” Motormaster’s engine rumbled, and Breakdown focused on the vibrations. So close, but still separate. Safe. His own engine stilled. “Better,” Motormaster said. “Five more minutes, then we’re going back.”

Breakdown curled his lip. “I still think he’s after us.”

“And I acknowledged you,” Motormaster replied. “I’m watching him, remember, and you’re going to watch Dead End. Is that understood?”

Breakdown lay his head on Motormaster’s chest. “Yes,” he said. 

* * *

Brawl whooped as he sped around the assault course, his treads spitting grit and his turret swinging to face each new target. Blitzwing sat on a small platform, scoring him or keeping time or whatever it was tanks did for one another. Vortex didn’t care. He wandered over to Onslaught and Swindle standing back a way from the track and gave Swindle’s spare tire a squeeze. 

“I _will_ shoot you,” Swindle said without moving. 

“You’re late.” Onslaught sniffed, giving Vortex a quick visual inspection. 

“By like thirty astroseconds,” Vortex said. 

“By two breems,” Onslaught corrected. 

“That’s two breems I could have been on the firing range,” Swindle added. “Instead I’m here, watching Brawl go round and round. I hope you had your fun.”

Vortex put his arm around Swindle’s shoulders. “It’s a steep price to pay, screwing the hottest grounder on the planet so you can unload your contraband in peace, but what can I say? I’m such a great team player.”

“Enough,” Onslaught said. “Swindle, go switch up the pattern, give Brawl something to stretch him. Vortex, with me.”

Swindle flicked Vortex on the chest before strolling off, dinging him in the middle of a smear of unbuffed wax. 

“You’re not exactly parade smart,” Onslaught commented. “I expect better.”

“So you do,” Vortex replied. He watched Swindle stroll away, his oversized cannon glinting in the simulated daylight, and turned on his heel to follow his commander. They walked away from the track, towards the empty firing range. 

“Report,” Onslaught said. 

“The big guy’s on side,” Vortex said. “He thinks I’m smitten. I did him a favour, I doubt he’s gonna be a problem any more.”

“A favour,” Onslaught repeated. 

“I diagnosed a problem,” Vortex said quietly. 

“This area is clean,” Onslaught said. “Be specific.”

“You sure you don’t want plausible deniability?” Vortex said with a smirk. 

Onslaught paused, hands behind his back and optics blank. Then he laughed, and the echoes of his laughter rippled through the team bond to tug at Vortex’s spark. 

Vortex grinned. “Dead End snuck into the cells and tried to sparkbond with Sideswipe.”

Onslaught’s optics flickered. “Excuse me?”

“It was while we were away.” Vortex shrugged. “I guess the vids aren’t enough for him any more. He snuck in, Brawl caught him, he used the team link to tell me. Brawl didn’t know what he was doing. Frag, I didn’t know until I got in there and took a look at his coding.”

“A sparkbond.”

“Not a sucessful one,” Vortex said. “Not this time. I need the cameras in the condemned cells to stay dead for a while.”

“Dead End is unpredictable,” Onslaught stated. “You said you could control him.”

“I can.” Vortex flicked his tail rotors. “I’m in control.”

“Are you really?” Onslaught asked. “He was meant to be passive. He isn’t meant to take the initiative.”

“Maybe I’m rubbing off on him?” Vortex smirked. “Don’t give me that look, he’s fucking roof over tires for me.”

Onslaught shook his head. “He’s developing an addiction.” 

“Which is what we wanted,” Vortex responded. “So let’s roll with it. The way I see it, we-”

Onslaught held up a finger for silence, and Vortex shut his mouth. It was a while before he spoke. “Soundwave has a planet to watch,” he said. “Elita One is still at large. Provided you are careful, a few dead cameras in our zone isn’t going to be high on his list of priorities.”

Silence again, but Vortex did not interrupt. Instead he folded his arms and waited. 

“All right,” Onslaught said, “give him what he wants. You have access to the prisoners’ logs, choose wisely.”

“We’ll need some time,” Vortex said. “Together, I mean. Our schedules gotta mesh.”

“Granted.”

“And I need to be with him for the execution. He can’t be with his team then.”

Onslaught gave Vortex a penetrating look. “Granted.” He shifted his weight. “Any more requests?”

“Actually yeah,” Vortex said. “We’ll need a spark energy dampener or a flux controller. Something to stop the signals from the sparkbond getting through the team bond.”

“That’s going to be more difficult.”

Vortex looked back at the cloud of dust billowing up from Brawl’s treads. “Swindle could get us one,” he said. 

“Swindle isn’t a part of this plan.”

“We tell him it’s for me. You made me fit it to stop me over-sharing all that awesome sex I’ve been having.”

Onslaught sighed. “I actually think he’ll thank me for this. Although you _will_ need to stop... oversharing.”

Vortex laughed. “I think I can do that.”

* * *

Dead End drifted through the orn in a daze. His spark ached, his mind spun, floating on Vortex’s promise as he passed through the spacebridge to Earth, his thoughts ever-circling the last fading echoes of Sideswipe’s extinction. 

“So long, slowpoke!” Wildrider yelled, zooming past him at three times the local speed limit. Dead End accelerated, a smile in the glint of his headlamps as he focused on the dark blur of Motormaster’s rear tyres. 

It seemed an instant before they were back on Cybertron in their dorm, Dead End listening to the sounds of Breakdown yelling, running, Motormaster speeding after him, Drag Strip and Wildrider coming together to burn off the excitement of the day. 

Dead End rolled on his bunk and steamed and wished Vortex wasn’t on duty. But he was, and Dead End still didn’t have the code to his room. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

He tried to read, flipping through his favourites like Drag Strip flipped through TV channels. The words skipped around, his finger slipped and scrolled through half a chapter instead of just one page. He found himself sighing at the wall, his cord rubbing its cover and his plugs tingling. 

He shut down for recharge, taking his optics offline and listening to the plink and ping of his armour as his core temperature dipped. If only Vortex would come like he had that other night, stealing in to claim him. 

Dead End laughed at himself, it was futile. In a year, ten years, a century, none of this would matter. But it was also futile trying to stop himself from fantasising. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face no matter how he thought about it, and the memory of that morning in Vortex’s arms brought him to a state of arousal he didn’t think he could bear. 

He groaned and rolled over again, unclipping his main cable and shoving it hard into one of his own ports. The feedback loop was harsh, slightly sterile in its predictability. But it eased the pressure from his cord and set up a sequence of rolling warm waves that brought him swiftly to a silent, pleasurable climax. 

“Want you.” He send the comm before he could think, before he could hope to stop himself. 

There was laughter in response, light-hearted and pleased. “You too,” Vortex sent back. “Get some sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

Tomorrow could not come soon enough. Dead End arrived at Vortex’s door a breem early, his struts quivering and a small crate of the finest high grade he could afford sloshing in his shaking hands. 

“You look amazing,” Vortex said, relieving him of the crate and pulling him into an urgent kiss the second he was through the doorway.

Dead End melted in his arms. How Vortex could be so smooth and warm and tempting he had no idea, but by the time they disentangled Dead End was running hot and wanted nothing less than to be thrown on the bunk and ridden hard until he came. 

“I have something for you,” Vortex said. He pressed a finger to Dead End’s lips. “I don’t want you to be disappointed, it isn’t a prisoner. Not quite yet.”

Dead End nodded, looking up into Vortex’s visor and trying to keep a hold of his energy field. “I never expected,” he said, and Vortex silenced him with a brief kiss. 

“But you were hoping,” Vortex said. “It’s all right, I understand. It’s why I got you something else. Something I think you’re going to like.”

Dead End slid his fingers amid Vortex’s tail rotors. “What is it?”

“Come and see,” Vortex said, taking Dead End’s hands and drawing him towards the bunk in its alcove. There was a package on the clean, unwrinkled covering. Vortex perched on the edge, and needed minimal effort to pull Dead End into his lap. For a long while the package sat forgotten, as Dead End indulged a few of his fantasies of the last week. Lips parted and optics off he floated on the joy of the long embrace. And could he bring himself to straddle Vortex’s lap, to open in a way he had never been able to for Motormaster?

The moment passed, and Vortex pulled the box towards them. “Open it.”

Under layers of packing foam and plastic sat a curved black clip with a small box attached. “What is it?” Dead End asked. 

“It’s for you,” Vortex said, laying a hand on his chest. “It’ll keep your sparkbond separate from your team bond.”

Dead End’s optics widened. 

Vortex slowly stroked his thigh. “You don’t want Motormaster finding out and stopping us, do you?”

“Primus no,” Dead End whispered. “They wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Vortex said. “But I understand, and I know how these things work. I’ll keep you safe.”

Dead End looked at him. “Not too safe,” he said. 

Vortex smiled and pulled him close. “Not too safe.”

* * *

“Run,” Breakdown whispered as Dead End edged past him into the Stunticon rec room. Still buzzing from the high grade and muzzy from the morning’s overload, he didn’t catch Breakdown’s meaning until it was too late. 

“Thankyou for gracing us with your presence,” Motormaster said. “Today’s training has been put on hold. We are going to attempt some team bonding.”

Breakdown lurched towards the door, but with Motormaster’s hand around his arm he wasn’t about to get far. Wildrider sulked in the corner, and Drag Strip rolled his eyes from his seat on a tilted-back chair. 

“Breakdown,” Motormaster intoned, “be still. The main door to our corridor is locked, and Soundwave was kind enough to re-set the codes for me this morning. Wildrider, Drag Strip, considering your latest bouts of insubordination you will connect first. We will use my quarters. Go!”

Dead End slunk after the unhappy procession, and it took him a few minutes in the gloom of Motormaster’s private room to realise that only two fifths of it was actually unhappy. Wildrider seemed tentatively gleeful, and Drag Strip had an air of competitive self assurance. Motormaster was stern, but with an edge of hope in his energy field. Breakdown wedged himself between Dead End and the wall, resigned and reluctant. 

“Everyone connect,” Motormaster commanded. “That was _connect_ Wildrider, not combine! Cables out, now!”

It was the fifth least seductive interface Dead End had ever had the misfortune of being ordered into. It only missed out on a higher slot because Wildrider and Drag Strip had obviously decided to go along with it. Exhibitionists, the both of them. It evidently wasn’t enough that Dead End was forced to listen to them moaning and clanging, he now had to watch it as well. 

Breakdown clearly felt the same, judging by the tight rasp of his energy field and the way his engine kept threatening to roar.

And Primus below, Motormaster had the manual out again. After his ongoing liaison with Vortex, Dead End was beginning to think that Hook had given it to him as part of an elaborate joke that only Constructicons would understand. He sighed and passed a cable to each of his team mates, and received one in return. 

“Synchronise sensor nets,” Motormaster demanded. “On my mark… Breakdown plug all of them in, _all of them!_ Mark!”

Dead End stared at the floor. Wildrider started cackling, and Drag Strip sent a dizzy and slightly confused signal around the loop. 

“I feel sick,” Breakdown groaned, and Dead End pushed back against him pinning him to the wall. His thanks was clear through the interface. 

“Shall we?” Wildrider said, baring his sharp teeth in a horrible grin. Motormaster nodded, and he pounced. 

Dead End didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Wildrider and Drag Strip pawed at each other, rolling around in their cables, wrestling for command. Through sheer advantage of weight, Wildrider came out on top. 

“Want you in me,” he snarled, and Drag Strip’s eyes lit up. A win-win, Dead End thought, they both got what they wanted. 

“Watch closely,” Motormaster said. “Feel the, uh, process. Wildrider, get that cable straightened!”

“So hot,” Dead End said drily, and it was enough to tip Breakdown over the edge. He started laughing, and couldn’t stop.

* * *

“I just can’t,” Breakdown said. Only Motormaster remained, the others had been dismissed. “I won’t try again. If you make me I’ll turn my engine over and shake you all into spare parts.”

“No you won’t,” Motormaster said. He made no move to approach Breakdown, but waited while the cleaning drone changed the soiled bedcover. “This is for our own good, you know that.”

“How?” Breakdown demanded. “I don’t feel it, I don’t feel _anything_. Anything except sick. I could throw up on you, is that what you want?”

“I want us to work as a team!” Motormaster snapped. “You’re impossible.”

“Me?” Breakdown backed towards the door. “I’m not impossible, _you’re_ impossible. These things you want us to do are impossible. You can’t make me want to… frag them. And you can’t think fragging them’s going to make us work as a team.”

Motormaster’s optics narrowed. “Wildrider and Drag Strip have the hang of it,” he said. 

“Because they want to!” Breakdown yelled. “I don’t want to. Dead End doesn’t want to!”

“He does with Vortex.”

“He doesn’t want to with us!”

“Because we haven’t given him the right incentive,” Motormaster said. 

The door opened for the cleaning drone, but Breakdown was just a little slow to slip out at the same time. 

“Stay,” Motormaster said. “I’m tired. Pretend I’ve chased you halfway to Kalis.”

“Then what?” Breakdown shook his head. “You’ll have to break me. I can’t go through that again, I can’t-”

“Just pretend.” Motormaster sighed, and hauled himself onto the freshly clean bunk. “You ran, I chased you. It’s just like the ruins. No cables, no connecting, no interfacing.”

Breakdown backed against the wall and slid to the floor, his legs like rubber. He shook his head. “You’ll have to catch me,” he said. 

To his surprise Motormaster did. He got up and scooped Breakdown into his arms and onto the bunk. The foam was firm, but gave in a way the ruins’ cold floors never could. He shivered.

“Better?” Motormaster asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. Of course it was better, cocooned between him and the sinking softness of his bunk. Breakdown sighed. Motormaster gently revved his engine. “Did you read anything from Dead End?” he asked.

Breakdown shivered anew. “He likes Vortex, he… enjoys what they do together. He’s looking forward to something. I don’t know. A present? Something.”

“Hmm, I saw that too.” He paused, shifting his weight. “We have two hours before we reconvene for training,” he said. “Do you,” he began, but Breakdown cut in. 

“I want to stay here.”

* * *

“He’s in pretty bad shape,” Brawl said, as he typed his code into the lock. The cell door opened, and Vortex followed him in. “Dunno what you got planned, but he ain’t up to much.”

The lights flickered, dispelling the gloom by increments. Vortex assessed the prisoner from the doorway. Conscious, defiant, not entirely focused. “Damage report?” he said. 

Brawl shrugged. “Med-team’s not been yet. Hook’s due later.”

The prisoner’s optics brightened as they approached, filthy lips twisted in a scowl. “He’s chained?” Vortex asked.

“Wings, wrists and ankles,” Brawl replied. “Had a bit of fight left in him when they brought him in. Hey, don’t go putting your hands near his mouth.”

“Bitey?” Vortex asked with a grin. 

“A bit.”

“Gonna need to clean him up.”

Brawl snickered. “Since when did you care about a mech being clean?”

“He’s not for me,” Vortex replied. He crouched, eye to eye with the Autobot. “I know you,” he said. “Slingshot, right?”

Slingshot snarled. “I’ll kill you!”

Vortex took a look at his chains, and the fresh welds where they clung to his armour. “I strongly doubt that.” He gave one of the wings a tug.

“Get off me! The frag do you think you’re doing?”

Vortex tapped his cheek. “Hush now. Brawl, who brought him in?”

“Uh, Blitzwing, Runabout maybe. Maybe Runamuk, I dunno, I forget who’s who.”

“The masters of brief reporting,” Vortex said, giving Slingshot a harder tap when the mech lunged for his fingers. “That’s a bit too much fight,” he said. “Have we got any tools here?”

“I dunno. Don’t you like carry all that around with you?”

Vortex gave him a look. “Not those kinds of tools. I need something heavy duty.”

Slingshot lunged again, denta bared. 

Brawl grabbed his head and held it still. “What _do_ you want him for?” 

“A gift,” Vortex replied. 

“What, for that polished piece o’ tailpipe you’ve been screwing?”

“Yep.”

Brawl laughed. “The frag’s that weakass pile of scrap gonna do with _this?_ ”

“We’ll see,” Vortex said.

“You’re full of answers,” Brawl said. “Whatever it is you’re gonna do, it better not be on my watch.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Vortex said, standing up. “You’re relieved. I’ll take the rest of this shift.”

“You’re serious?” Brawl said. 

Vortex nodded. “Just ping me if Hook gets in touch with a time.”

“Sure thing,” Brawl said, heading for the door. “Just don’t screw him over too bad, OK?”

Slingshot tried to rise, hauling on his bonds. “I dare you,” he growled. 

Vortex listened to the fading clang of Brawl’s footsteps. “I don’t expect you to behave,” he said, making a feint for the side of Slingshot’s head. When Slingshot snapped after him, he seized the back of his neck and forced his head down. “Not for me. But I expect you to behave for my guest. Can you do that for me?”

“You’re glitched!” Slingshot squirmed, hissing. 

“We’re all glitched,” Vortex said pleasantly, extending a data cable from his wrist. “Now hold still. This might sting a little.”


	6. Chapter 6

When the call came through from Vortex, Dead End exited the Stunticon dorm so fast he left tire marks on the hall floor. Motormaster yelled after him, but in a half-hearted way prompted no doubt by Breakdown’s presence in the rec room. Wildrider laughed, and Drag Strip made a lewd comment that Dead End wasn’t prepared to dignify with acknowledgment, but no-one pursued. 

He found Vortex at the rendezvous point outside the main gate of the prison block. He transformed in an unseemly cloud of dust and tried to pretend that the gloom would make up for the dullness of his polish. 

Vortex didn’t seem to care, and led him inside with a smirk that Dead End could only interpret as lascivious. They got as far as the guard room before Dead End’s impatience got the better of him, and he slid a hand down one of Vortex’s rotors. The rotary pulled him into an embrace both delightful and relieving. It had been over a week since Vortex had told him about the new prisoner, and their schedules had denied them all but the briefest time together since then. Dead End’s engine purred as Vortex’s hands roved. It was an antidote to the disappointment and wrongness of the Stunticon team bonding session. 

“You’re keen,” Vortex commented, the whir of his fans blowing a warm breeze through his vents onto Dead End’s plating. 

“Could we… I mean, do we have time?”

“After,” Vortex said. “If you want to. You’ll need your strength.”

“We’re really doing this?” Dead End said. 

“As long as you still want to,” Vortex replied, kissing his lips one final time.

Dead End suppressed a shiver. “I want it,” he said. 

“He’s in cell B-two,” Vortex said. “The cameras are all broken, and the area is clean. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Dead End vented deep, pulling back. He nodded. “I’m ready.”

* * *

"Go on," Vortex said. "It's OK, he’s secure."

Despite the certainty of a few astroseconds before, Dead End loitered in the doorway. Clearly overwhelmed, he glanced around, sucking on his lower lip. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his vents coming in quick shallow pants.

"It's OK," Vortex repeated. "We’ll take this at your pace.”

Dead End swallowed and nodded. “Remind me when will he...”

“His execution’s set for tomorrow,” Vortex said. “It’s just us from now until then, I promise.”

Dead End took a step into the room. It was interesting how he looked everywhere but at the prisoner, how his pretty optics skipped over the walls and floor, over Vortex. 

"You know what to do," Vortex said. "You’ve done this before, remember?”

"I know," Dead End whispered. "I..." He took a long vent, letting it shudder out of him. "Why isn't he conscious?"

Vortex smiled. "We’re going to start this off nice and slow. I'll bring him online when you're ready for him."

"I'm ready now," Dead End said, but he obviously wasn't. Vortex closed in, his hands on Dead End's shoulders, and his smile broadened. It wasn't fear that made the grounder's fists shake. Vortex stroked his back, extending his energy field to lick the sensors beneath. Dead End cleaved to him, suddenly active, hungry. He leaned up on his toes to kiss Vortex full on the mouth.

Maybe he _was_ ready.

"He's yours whenever you want him," Vortex said. " _How_ ever you want him."

Dead End pulled back. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean. I don't want him like that. I’m wasting time, I shouldn’t, you're doing so much for me." He ground to a halt. "We should do it now, before someone comes."

Vortex nodded. No one was going to come, but there was nothing wrong with a little pressure. Indulging in one last brush against Dead End's EM field, Vortex went over to the prisoner. "Wakey wakey," he said softly. "It's time to shine. You don't want to miss your big day."

"Is that..." Dead End snuck closer.

"Slingshot," Vortex confirmed. "An Aerialbot, just for you. He lost his wings when they brought him in, and I've removed his vocal processors for aesthetic reasons. I thought you might approve."

"Yes," Dead End said, raising his hand to touch the Autobot's cheek. "I think I like him quiet."

Vortex tapped Slingshot's helm. "Wake up now, that's it."

“Would you… open his chest for me?” Dead End said.

"You can open him," Vortex said. "Do you still have the jimmy I gave you? Just tease him apart. Any panels you like."

After another shuddering invent, Dead End fetched the tool from his subspace and slid his fingertips over the Aerialbot's pocked chest, searching for the seams. 

Slingshot came around slowly. There was fire in his eyes and a desperate strength in his struggling. It was no match for the bonds, though, and Vortex entertained himself nudging the ragged stumps of his wings while Dead End found purchase with the tool.

Vortex wasn't sure if it was pride he felt watching Dead End heave and rip and rend until a bright blue light spilled out into the room, or merely the warm tingle of anticipation. Dead End was doing well. Slingshot’s chest parted, and his jaw dropped in a mute howl of horror as Dead End reached in and touched the casing of his spark. 

“Now?” Dead End asked, looking up to Vortex. 

Vortex nodded, and Dead End parted his own chest. He pressed close, his arms as far around the prisoner as he could reach, their light merging. 

It lasted an aeon. Slingshot thrashed, and Dead End pinned him and pressed and pressed until his legs began to shake and his fingers quivered. He whimpered, gasping and moaning, his feet finally kicking as Slingshot faded from consciousness, and their sparks began naturally to disentangle.

"Oh frag, oh frag, oh frag," Dead End panted. His chest closed, automatic, and he bent double, his hands on his knees.

"Deep breaths," Vortex said. "You can't purge, your body won't let you. You need that energy."

"Not... sick," Dead End managed. "Just. It's so much."

"Too much?" Vortex lengthened Slingshot's chains, letting him slump to the floor.

"No!" Dead End snapped. He forced himself to straighten. "I can cope, I can do this.”

“I know you can,” Vortex said. He knelt to re-fasten Slingshot’s chest. 

“I want to go back now,” Dead End said. “To yours.”

Vortex stood, laying a hand on Dead End’s shoulder. “Of course,” he said.

Dead End quivered, his energy field a mess of shock and arousal. He bit his lip, glanced at the cell door. “Take me back?” he whispered, but he stood rooted to the spot, his expression pleading. 

Vortex kissed his cheek, his lips, his throat, and it was as though Dead End forgot all notions of seeking safety, of leaving the prison block. His handsome face was bare, his purple optics glowing fever bright. He cleaved to Vortex, hot and urgent. But far from confident. His hands didn't stray, his lips parted only as far as Vortex pressed them to.

"Please," he managed, and Vortex wanted to take him then and there. But the mechling had only just been bonded, he needed more than a quick feedback loop on a gritty prison floor. At least if he was going to last.

Vortex took him out the quick route, passing Swindle on the way. Swindle gave them both a long-suffering look, but their team bond registered interest and amusement, and Vortex sent him a snapshot of Dead End flat on his back howling in ecstasy.

“Anything I need to know?” Swindle said aloud. “I mean about the prisoners. Pretty obvious what you two have been doing.”

Dead End froze, and Vortex smirked. “Guard duty’s boring,” he said. “And nope, nothing to report.”

Swindle rolled his optics and slunk into the guard room. “Better be clean in here,” he muttered loudly. 

“Let’s go,” Dead End whispered, and Vortex allowed himself to be dragged. 

As soon as they’d entered the accommodation block Vortex logged onto the base’s wireless network. He led Dead End on a winding path, using the realtime feed from the security cameras to avoid any onlookers. It wasn’t long before Dead End began to shiver, leaning more heavily on Vortex with each frantic step.

In his quarters, he locked the door, and steered Dead End towards the bunk. The Stunticon's shivering worsened, his armour hot to the touch.

"I want you," Dead End said. "Take me. Any way you like."

Vortex vented a shudder. “You sure know how to rev my engine.” He cupped Dead End’s hip, just below his interface panel. They kissed a moment, Dead End pressing close. 

“I mean it,” he said. “Spike me. Please. I… I want it to be you.”

“You’re sure?” Vortex said, but his hand was already wandering, warmed by the heat between Dead End’s legs. Dead End moved his feet a little further apart, his covers snapping back so fast he winced. 

“I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t sure,” he said. 

“Sit on the bunk,” Vortex said. “Right on the edge, just like that. Now spread your legs.” He leaned over Dead End, lightly kissing his lips. “Let your cord up. Very nice.” He reached down, palming the spike for a long moment that left Dead End breathless, before stroking lower. 

Dead End hissed, tensing. 

Vortex continued to gently stroke the dry, smooth rim of his valve. “This is your first time, isn’t it?” 

“No! No, of course not!” Dead End managed. 

"Outside of your team?" Vortex said, pressing a fingertip against the tightly clamped opening. In deference to the straining of Dead End’s spike and the frantic pulse of his energy field, it was leaking. 

“I… Yes! The first time outside of my team.” Dead End leaned back on his hands, his optics flickering. 

“Try to relax,” Vortex said. He wet his fingers on the fluid leaking from that tight port and gently rubbed the opening, pushing his fingertip against the centre with each slick stroke until Dead End widened enough to let him in.

Panting heavily now, and leaning further back, Dead End tilted his hips. “More!” he demanded. “Please more!” Vortex edged a second finger inside, a slow process which made Dead End cringe and whimper. But the Stunticon bore it, and eventually he loosened enough that the squeeze of his valve on Vortex's fingers was no longer painful.

He showed no sign of active enjoyment, but neither did he show any sign of wanting to stop. He clearly needed to couple, he needed closeness and release, things any bonded should receive as a natural part of the bonding process. 

Vortex knelt between his glossy red thighs, and bent to kiss him in a way he was certain the grounder's team had never done.

The effect was instant. Dead End's knees came up, his hands balled to fists around the foam berth-cover. He gasped in shock, and his valve spiralled open. Then clamped shut again, fluttering as he made breathy little sounds that Vortex would be very happy to hear him make all night long.

Vortex licked and teased, taking advantage of the natural needs of the Stunticon's frame, the excess charge which plagued the newly bonded. It was more than enough to trigger the release on his own equipment, and he stroked himself to full pressure as he brought Dead End closer and closer to climax. 

When Dead End finally came, he yelled in surprise, and his energy field was a sunburst of pleased bafflement.

Vortex wasted no time in mounting him, pushing him into the center of the bunk and sliding deep inside him on the first thrust. Dead End almost screamed. He tensed, bucking, and bit down on his own fist. Vortex moved slowly inside him, enjoying the wet heat of his overload, the smooth tightness of his valve. It was almost too tight, which made him wonder how Motormaster managed. Surely he screwed his subordinates. The thought was far from unpleasant, imagining Dead End writhing under that huge bulk, impaled on a cord that had to be at least as magnificent as Onslaught's. Would he whimper like this, optics wide and lips parted as he vented hard? Or would Motormaster lay him on his front, his face pressed hard into the bunk and his screams muffled.

The thought carried Vortex neatly to overload, but he didn't withdraw. Dead End loosened his grip on the bunk and looked up at him. His optics were still wide, his expression a mixture of shock and relief. His valve contracted, and he winced. It obviously hadn't been intentional.

“Do you and Motormaster ever..." Vortex said softly, leaving the question to complete itself.

Dead End's optics narrowed and he shifted, trying to back away. But pinned as he was there really wasn’t anywhere for him to go. "He tries," he said. “Sometimes.”

"Is that why you're so tense?" Vortex thrust gently, and the Stunticon gasped.

"Does it matter?" Dead End demanded. "None of it matters. How long until the execution?"

"Not long," Vortex replied. He pulled out, and pushed his fingers back inside. The slickness of his own spilled fluid made him smile. Dead End tensed anew, throwing his head back.

"I need to overload again," he said. "Please. It's the bond, it's stronger than last time."

"Of course it is, “ Vortex said. He contemplated taking Dead End back to the cells to fuck his new bondmate. Swindle would turn a blind eye for the promise of a future favour. But Dead End had shown repugnance for that particular act, and now wasn't the time to convince him otherwise. Vortex twisted his fingers, gently stroking until he found a node that made Dead End's panting slow and his breathy whimpering return. Bringing him to climax was easier than before, as though he was fresh off the assembly line and his systems were priming for the very first time.

Heaving for air, Dead End slumped. “That… helped,” he said.

“I’m sure it did.” Vortex stuck his wet fingers in his mouth, and ran his free hand over Dead End’s superior finish. Dead End arched into his touch, warm and pliant.

“I can feel him,” Dead End said. He rolled onto his front and lay his head on his arms. “He’s awake now. He knows.”

Vortex dug out a cloth and began to smooth it over Dead End’s back. “How is he?” he said.

Dead End sighed, stretching his legs. “Angry,” he said. “Confused, aroused, disgusted.”

Murmuring to show he’d heard, Vortex straddled the Stunticon’s hips and set about giving him a proper rub down. “Do you feel sorry for him?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous!”

“Not even a little?” Vortex worked his shoulders, rocking the plating on its mounts.

“No,” Dead End replied, less forcefully. “Not… Maybe a little. But I know it’s the bond. I… Do that again! Mmmmm, that hits my suspension.”

Vortex laughed, and pressed harder. Dead End’s plating shifted under his hands, and the Stunticon let out a low happy moan. Vortex decided the time for questions was at an end. Now was the time to reduce his subject to a heap of quivering putty.

Slowly but surely Dead End’s vents became slower, his responses less articulate. He stretched his arms above his head, pressing his face into the berth. Vortex paid special attention to his fingers, taking a tiny brush to scrub the oil and grime from his joints, running the cloth over the sensitive gaps between his tough armour plates.

“Make me gleam,” Dead End whispered, voice rough and drowsy. “If this kills me, I want to shine.”

Vortex smeared a little wax onto the Stunticon’s helm, and began to work it in tight little circles. He smiled. “You’ll make a beautiful corpse.”

* * *

Dead End awoke with his cord at full pressure and his valve so empty it ached. He groaned, curling in on himself. He’d finally done it. He’d allowed himself to be taken in the way Motormaster wanted to take him. And it had been on his terms, his choice, with his partner. 

“I was about to wake you up,” Vortex said, leaning over him to gently nibble on the side of his helm. “I got you some energon. How are you feeling?”

“OK,” Dead End replied. “Good.” Queasy, he thought, defiant, terrified, furious. But these were feelings seeping in through the bond, the frustrated flailings of his temporary bondmate struggling bound between Skywarp and Thundercracker on his way to his final reward. 

_Why?_ The thought was quick, angry. Dead End gaped. 

“He spoke to me,” he said quietly. “He… he can speak to me?”

“Only if you let him,” Vortex said. “Here, sit up.” He draped a blanket over Dead End’s shoulders and pressed a small ceramic cube into his hands. The energon sloshed, unappetising until the moment the fumes hit Dead End’s olfactory sensors. His tank gurgled. 

“I don’t know how to refuse him,” Dead End said. “It’s more a feeling than words. It’s... I don’t know, it’s strange.” He looked down into the liquid, and took a sip. 

“Did you reply?”

“Primus no.” Dead End shook his head. There was less drink left than he thought. He downed the rest, and handed Vortex the cup. “I can see through his eyes. He’s in a corridor. His wings hurt. He’s about to enter the auditorium.”

“Do you want me to turn on the TV?” 

“Do you want to?” Dead End said. 

Vortex settled beside him, looping his arm around Dead End’s shoulders. “I’d rather connect,” he said. 

Arousal bloomed in Dead End’s spark, quickly spreading to warm him through. He coughed, trying to purge the static from his vocaliser before it could take over. “I’m all yours,” he said, and meant it. 

His fans kicked in, his spark jumped. He shrugged the blanket from his shoulders, and shuffled down the bunk. Vortex lay on his side, hooking them up without looking. He was watching Dead End’s face, a smile on his lips, his visor softly lit.

“What?” Dead End demanded. 

“Just looking at you,” Vortex said, and drew a shuddering vent as the interface established. Dead End reached for him, tugging him close. A kiss at first, a tantalising taste of Vortex’s weight on his, chest to chest. Then the rotary was over him, covering him, and Dead End didn’t need to tell him to get between his thighs, to wrap his grey lips around Dead End’s thrumming cord. 

The wash of disgust came from Slingshot, wrapped in a parcel of loathing and fear. Vortex moaned around Dead End’s spike, and Dead End didn’t have to ask if he’d felt it. It was there in the connection, Vortex’s approval and his pleasure. And then he was moving, straddling Dead End, drawing his cord up inside himself. Taking his pleasure, Dead End thought, and wondered how much of it Slingshot could feel. 

Too much, he realised as Slingshot railed against him, his hatred a storm of knives cutting Dead End’s spark. Dead End bucked once, overloading with an abruptness that left him heaving. Vortex rode him a while, then came to rest, looking down into his optics. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. 

Dead End shook his head. “It’s not working. The dampener. Slingshot...” 

“It’s fine,” Vortex said, clenching around him as his cord swelled again to full pressure. “Can your team feel you?”

“I.. I don’t know! I’m not about to ask them!”

“Then it’s working,” Vortex said. He kissed Dead End lightly, then deeper as his hips began again to roll and the charge grew. “Don’t overthink it,” he whispered. “Focus on your gift.”

Dead End thrust himself into the kiss, into the sparkbond. Slingshot felt vile, used, degraded. Hopeless as he knelt at the place of execution, violated as the interface seeped through the bond to crawl through his wires. Dead End couldn’t have cared less about Slingshot’s feelings, but Vortex lapped them up, the Autobot’s state of mind adding an obvious spice to the slide of Dead End’s cord in his valve.

And suddenly, desperately, Dead End wanted to be the one getting spiked. He wanted to be spread and pinned and fucked, and he didn’t care if his need spilled out through the interface. He wanted it to, he wanted Vortex to take him without asking, to know what he needed without having to be told. 

“Beautiful,” Vortex whispered, licking a trail down his throat. 

Dead End whined in frustration, matching the whine of panic in Slingshot’s spark, the whine of readiness in Megatron’s cannon. He clutched at Vortex’s thighs, bucked his hips in frantic jerky thrusts. The cannon aimed; Slingshot glared. The light consumed them. 

* * *

Dead End howled, a cry of anguish and utter abandon. Vortex took his optics offline, felt the hit of death through the interface, the spurt of Dead End’s fluids seeping from his over-full port. He came to fulfilment with a happy sigh, his valve fluttering and his circuits singing. Beneath him Dead End writhed, crying and panting. His spark was on fire, his every wire burned. He screamed in loss and agony and the pure violent ecstasy of being the one left alive. 

He offered no resistance as Vortex gently lifted his arms above his head. He didn’t ask where the magnet came from clipping his wrists in place. He didn’t protest as Vortex lifted off him, leaving his spike jutting filthy and impossibly hard in the air. 

“Perfect,” Vortex breathed, as he slicked the fluids down Dead End’s thighs, between his legs. He rubbed a slick thumb over his anterior sensor. “So perfect.”

Dead End’s cries turned slowly to moans. His vents stilled a moment, and his thighs parted further in clear invitation. Vortex hooked his arms under Dead End’s knees, lifting his hips. The mech’s port was as fine as the rest of him, all gleaming red curves and glimmering biolights. The nub of his anterior node glowed, and his valve clenched at the press of Vortex’s cord. 

Slowly Vortex edged inside. The fit was snug, but not as tight as that first time. Dead End huffed, tugging on the clip. Vortex pushed inside with a series of shallow thrusts. It was amazing, watching his cord vanish into that beautiful frame, watching that valve pulse and stretch and gleam around him. 

Dead End came with a yell, his spark pulsing erratically, his energy field a mess. Vortex dropped his legs and seized his hips, thrusting hard into him, chasing his own fulfilment. 

It didn’t take long. How could it with Dead End’s spark roiling in turmoil, the interface an urgent rush of need. He arched with the echo of Vortex’s charge, his valve rippling and squeezing with the onset of overload. When climax came Dead End’s spark discharged, and the recoil caused brownouts all through Vortex’s frame. 

Vortex slumped on top of him, dizzy and overwarm. Absently he switched off the clip, and Dead End rolled his wrists, but didn’t bother to move his arms. Vortex slid out of him, and Dead End whimpered. Sore, the interface told him. Sore and calm and fulfilled. 

And drowsy. An impulse to clean himself came and went, transferred to Vortex through the connection, but Vortex wasn’t moving, and besides his spark was drained, his processors overwhelmed. Dead End was in recharge before his cord had finished retracting. 

* * *

“He’s not bored yet,” Breakdown commented. He lay in the warm dent in the bunk recently occupied by Motormaster. His commander was at the room’s single console, checking his messages. Breakdown could see the logo at the top of the screen, the blue glare of Cybertronian glyphs interspersed with the occasional word in the plain English script they’d used on Earth.

“I know,” Motormaster said. He typed a brief reply, before scrolling to the next message. 

“I wish he would,” Breakdown said. “I don’t like it.” He curled around himself. If only he had a third alt mode. A cube perhaps, or a sphere. Something tight, compact. Motormaster’s warmth was fast dissipating, the foam returning to its proper shape. “Do you _have_ to do that?” He snapped, and cringed. 

“Yes.” The response was calm. “Access the bond. What’s he doing?”

“Sleeping,” Breakdown said a little too fast. “Come back?” he said. “Just for a while.”

To his surprise Motormaster stood. He stretched for a long moment, rolling his shoulders, then his ankles. “No,” he said, and Breakdown froze as Motormaster loomed over him and scooped him off the bunk. But his touch was gentle, his energy field harsh with concern. Breakdown cleaved to his warmth; mornings on Cybertron were always cold. Then Motormaster sat, Breakdown bundled on his lap, and returned to his typing. 

“They’ve been…” Breakdown coughed to clear his vocaliser, and waited until Motormaster stopped typing. “They were… again. I can’t stand it.”

A growl sounded deep in Motormaster’s chest. “I have allowed it,” he said, and his field flickered with loathing, regret. A touch of wariness. “They have every right to… do what they’re doing.”

“It’s vile,” Breakdown spat. “I wish I could turn off the bond.” He shuddered with revulsion. “They should learn to keep their feelings to themselves.”

Motormaster sniffed. He answered another message, and Breakdown settled in the cage of his arms, his knees drawn up and his head rested over Motormaster’s spark. 

“Can’t you talk to him?” Breakdown said. “Make him stop letting things through.”

“I could,” Motormaster conceded. “But I won’t. Shared experience is intrinsic to a successful gestalt.”

Breakdown grimaced. “How is this helpful?” he said, looking up in the hope of catching his commander’s eye. But all he could see was the jut of Motormaster’s chin and a violet glow reflecting on the sides of his cowl. 

Motormaster didn’t answer for a while, absorbed by the screen. He clicked to send, and looked down. “How is isolation helpful?” he asked. 

Breakdown huffed. “It helps _me_.” 

This prompted a smile. “You are a special case.”

“Glitched, you mean?” Breakdown curled tighter, and shivered as Motormaster patted his back.

“I wouldn’t say that.” 

“Dead End’s glitched,” Breakdown whispered. 

“It was bad energon,” Motormaster reminded him. 

“I’m not talking about that! It’s the… interfacing, the way it leaks through. It makes me feel… things I don’t want. It’s disgusting.”

Motormaster hummed, typing one-handed while he pressed Breakdown to his chest. “It isn’t necessarily disgusting,” he said. 

“To you! You like it, you… want to interface. I hate it, all of it. I don’t want anything to do with it.” Breakdown could feel Motormaster gearing up to speak, and forced himself on. “And don’t say I need to try it. I’ve tried it, I’ve tried _all_ of it.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Motormaster said. 

“That doesn’t mean I want to do it again!” Breakdown shuddered, his tanks gurgling and a nasty taste clawing at the back of his throat. 

Motormaster sighed. “Team interfacing sessions are essential to the proper function of a gestalt.”

“Says who?” Breakdown cried. “Says some dead wingnut from the Golden Age? Says Hook?”

“It was Megatron actually.”

“What the frag does he know about combiners?” The churning in Breakdown’s guts became a churning of his engine, and the arm around him tightened. 

“I can’t exempt you from team bonding,” Motormaster said. 

“Then change the bonding! It’s… we could combine to bond.”

“I thought you hated combining.”

“It’s better than this!” Breakdown’s engine revved; the console flickered. 

“That’s enough,” Motormaster said. “We follow Megatron’s directives, we do not diverge.”

Breakdown wriggled until he’d turned his back to Motormaster’s chest, and grabbed his arm in case he decided to withdraw it. “I won’t do it,” he said. 

“Excuse me?”

Breakdown took a deep vent. “I won’t take part in any more team interface sessions until Dead End stops shoving his ugly disgusting fragging into the bond.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Motormaster laughed. “You hardly take part in them as it is.”

“I try!” Breakdown’s engine revved hard, and Motormaster’s energy field gave a sickly reverberation. “It’s not my fault it’s so horrible.”

Motormaster put a hand on the back of his head, his own engine rumbling until Breakdown’s had settled. “I will speak with him,” he said. “And you will try harder.”

Breakdown sniffed, trying to suppress his disgust. Eventually he spoke. “All right.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dead End swallowed dry and keyed in his code to the Stunticon dorm. His team were in. All four of them, sitting around, reading, waiting. If only the spark energy dampener kept signals from reaching him as well as from escaping into the bond. 

He passed the open door of the rec room, caught a glimpse of Wildrider sitting with his feet on the table, head back. There was an energon cube balanced on his face, and Drag Strip stood behind him, carefully building a house of cards on top of it. It was doomed to disaster, and Dead End scowled to combat the smile threatening to curve his lips. He didn’t want to smile, he didn’t want to feel closer to his team. He wanted Vortex and concealment and the lingering echoes of that mind-shattering overload. 

He passed Breakdown’s room, aware of the sulking presence within, aware for a moment that Breakdown was aware of him. There was no welcome, and the red light on the door’s keypad showed that it was locked. 

“A word, if you please.” Motormaster lurked in the doorway to his recharge. “Your room.”

Dead End nodded. His spark lurched and a chill seeped through him. They knew. Of course they knew. How could he keep something like this from them? How could he ever have hoped to? He slunk to his room, head down. 

“Sit,” Motormaster said, following him in and closing the door. 

Dead End sat. So it had come to this. And wasn’t it bound to, sooner or later? Little things slipped during combination, small fragments of memory and thought. Sometimes they survived the dissolution of Menasor’s mind. He was a combiner, he wasn’t allowed secrets. 

“So.” Motormaster coughed. He folded his arms, his optics narrowed. 

Dead End stared at the floor. Let the punishment come. He should never have hoped for happiness.

Motormaster huffed and shifted his weight to the other foot. He coughed again. “I have allowed your… dalliance with the Combaticon.” He paused, but Dead End didn’t look up. Motormaster was a shadowy blur in his peripheral vision, it was better that way. “However,” He continued. “Your blatant disregard for your team mates cannot continue.”

Disregard? Dead End’s spark gave a sharp pang, and he rubbed his chest without thinking. 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

“Of course,” Dead End replied, and waited for the inevitable blow. It didn’t come. 

“Look at me,” Motormaster said. 

“Sir.” Dead End raised his head. His spark was calm now, but a chill was seeping into his frame. 

Motormaster sighed and rubbed his face. “You can’t keep doing this,” he said. “Every time you… engage in an erotic act with that Combaticon it…” He snarled, but forged on in a dangerously level tone. “It comes through the bond. It’s not good for the team.”

Dead End stared. “I-”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Motormaster growled. “And don’t make me regret having given my permission for you to engage in whatever depravity you two get up to.”

Words clustered in Dead End’s vocal processors, but he focused on his vents, on the growing cold in his chest. If he tried he could feel the dampener, a little block of warmer metal next to his spark, a slight tug on his energy reserves. 

Motormaster’s hands balled to fists. “Make no mistake,” he said, “if this liaison becomes a problem for my team, I will end it. Do you understand?”

Dead End nodded. 

“It’s an affront,” Motormaster said. “You should be with us, not him. It’s not healthy.” His lip curled. “Keep your perversions out of the bond.” 

Dead End opened his mouth to protest, but Motormaster was already leaving. 

* * *

“It’s novel,” Onslaught said, “I’ll give you that.”

“It was his idea,” Vortex replied. He sat on the edge of Onslaught’s desk, watching his hands. Onslaught typed while he talked, his optics flicking between Vortex and the solid-light screen. 

“It’s also risky,” he said. 

Vortex shrugged. “So? Plan A wasn’t exactly risk free. And this way it’s all on him.”

Onslaught sniffed, his energy field resonating with amusement. “Your capacity for absolving yourself of responsibility is consistently impressive. However-” He waited until he had Vortex’s undivided attention before continuing. “The long-term use of prisoners carries too high a risk.”

“So I’ll find someone else,” Vortex said. “Who do you hate most right now?”

“I know you better than that,” Onslaught said. “It is imperative that you do this discreetly.”

“Yeah yeah, I know.” Vortex drummed his fingers on his knee. “OK, I got an idea where I’m taking this.”

“Do I need to be briefed?” Onslaught asked. 

Vortex smirked. “Wouldn’t want my dear old commander to be complicit now, would I?” He got off the desk, their energy fields meshing briefly as he headed past Onslaught for the door. 

“Be careful,” Onslaught said. 

Vortex laughed. “Aren’t I always?” 

* * *

Dead End lurked outside Vortex’s room. Waiting wasn’t a comfortable experience. The main corridor was only one junction away, the clamour of footsteps and engines and voices setting Dead End’s teeth on edge. He hated them, the rank and file, so full of gossip and intrigue, always brawling, never thinking. They were dull, inside and out. He didn’t know how they could stand it. 

He couldn’t stand it. There was no option but to listen to them, no way to block the fragments of conversation. He shuddered to think that he could have been like them. A quirk of manufacture, a glitch in Vector Sigma’s subroutines. He looked down at his chest, and flexed his gleaming fingers. 

“You’re early,” Vortex said, and Dead End jumped. Vortex laughed, and gave him a brief kiss on the lips. “Lost in thought there, shiny?”

Dead End sighed, and was too late to watch Vortex key in the code to his room. He followed the rotary in and collapsed on the sofa. 

“What’s up?” Vortex asked, as he emptied a few of his compartments onto a shelf. Tools, a handful of credits, some crumpled datasheets, nothing particularly interesting. Dead End sighed again. 

“I need a stronger dampener,” he said. “This one’s faulty.”

Vortex patted his shoulder on the way past, and threw the data sheets down the trash chute. “What makes you think that?” 

“My team, they… They knew we were interfacing. They...” Dead End brought out a cloth and began buffing his fingers. “They felt it.”

“Felt what?” Vortex said. He leaned up, rooting around on a shelf mounted well above his head. 

“Us,” Dead End replied. 

“Fragging?” 

“Motormaster has issued an ultimatum.” Dead End leaned his head against the backrest. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s he said?” Vortex asked. He made a small noise of triumph, and joined Dead End on the couch. “You can tell me,” he said. “Here, you want a gel thing?”

The packet was crumpled, but the seal was in tact. Dead End watched the holographic label for a second or two, slightly baffled. He shook his head. 

“Picked ‘em up in Monacus,” Vortex said. “Suppose they still make this kinda thing in the colonies. You sure you don’t want one?”

“I’m sure,” Dead End said, then Vortex opened the box and a pleasant scent wafted out. “I’m not sure,” he added. “Maybe later? It’s just… Motormaster… He says I have to stop sharing things through the team bond. If I don’t, he’ll… put an end to this. To us.”

“He said that, huh?” Vortex popped one of the small gel cubes into his mouth and chewed a while. “I guess what we’ve got is pretty intense.”

Dead End nodded, unable to resist a smile. He was equally unable to resist the kiss that followed, sweetened with the taste of the gel candy. 

“We’ll just tweak the dampener,” Vortex said with a hand on Dead End’s chest. His energy field pulsed, a warm pressure passing through Dead End’s armour to tease at his spark. 

“You can do that?” 

“Sure, it shouldn’t be too hard.”

Dead End wriggled down, and Vortex straddled him. “What about when I combine?” Dead End asked. “ _Can_ I combine?”

“Of course you can,” Vortex said. “Open up for me.”

Dead End’s plug-and-port cover came loose before his rational mind could stop it. He coughed, embarrassed, and parted his chest. The look on Vortex’s face was pure adoration. Dead End basked in his awe as the sparklight spilled out and Vortex reached in. He gasped at the lightest of touches to his spark casing, then Vortex’s own cables were spilling free and he was plugging in and Dead End didn’t know which way was up. 

“Let me know if it hurts,” Vortex said, but it was the opposite of hurt. It was liquid heat, it was Earth’s sun on his hood, it was the feel of Vortex’s lips around his cord. Dead End groaned, head back and optics off. But his visual feed didn’t die, and his optics lit up with the view from Vortex’s visor. He sighed. His bodywork was perfection, his open chest erotic and vulgar and impossibly arousing. His spark pulsed, regular and strong, and so very close to Vortex’s hands which had brought an end to so many lives. 

Vortex vented warm air over his spark, and caressed the edges with his energy field. He plugged a cable into the dampener, and Dead End gasped as his spark lurched, but it was over so quickly and it was as though Vortex was inside his spark, in his mind. Dead End’s valve tightened on nothing, and his core flared. 

“How are you feeling?” Vortex asked, and Dead End parted his thighs, slipping further down the seat. “Are you sure??”

“Please,” Dead End whispered. 

Vortex unplugged himself from the dampener, but everywhere else his presence remained. He toyed with the outermost reach of Dead End’s corona, fingertips sizzling as they danced. His other hand strayed down, and Dead End watched fascinated through Vortex’s eyes as his own valve cover came loose and the ruddy glow of his biolights lit the moistness of his external nodes. He tensed at the first push, frozen by a flash of panic as intense as anything provoked by Motormaster. Then it was gone in a haze of memory. Spark-to-spark with the Aerialbot, the bond establishing, consuming him. The need so fierce it hurt, the pain as Vortex stretched him that first time. 

There was no pain this time as Vortex pushed gently inside him. He thrust slowly, smoothly, his fingers emerging wet, his fingertips catching on sensors that ached for touch. Dead End writhed, thighs spread wide as Vortex lowered his head. 

The visual input ceased, but Dead End didn’t need it. His spark glowed, his valve rippled, and little glimmers of pleasure undulated through him. He thought of his next bondmate, wide-eyed in shock as Megatron fired, that light speeding towards them both, the darkness rising. 

He came in a convulsion of sparklight, and could only murmur in approval as Vortex knelt up between his legs and pulled him closer to the edge of the seat. This time he was ready to be filled, his sensors primed, his valve clenching. Vortex pushed his legs back, and Dead End whined at the nudge of the cord at his opening. He gasped as Vortex pushed into him, as much from the shock of fullness as from the signals from his over-sensitised nodes. 

He’d never thought he could like this. From his unsuccessful couplings with Motormaster to his brief and unfulfilling fumble with Breakdown, he’d thought this was not for him. He’d thought he couldn’t relax, couldn’t enjoy it no matter how much the idea intrigued him. But here he was, as open and wanton and willing as the bondmates in the old romantic novels. As beautiful, he thought, in the grip of his rare-framed lover, with his lover’s dark hands skitting over his spark, his lover’s energy filling him in great hot waves, their sparks reaching to each other, their signatures in synch. 

When he came for the second time he saw in glimpses how he looked to Vortex - not his visual form, but the ways he was perceived. He was stunning, electrifying. Not only his bodywork and his spark, but his vulnerability, his fascination with death, his single-minded pursuit of fulfillment. Vortex’s presence was overbearing, possessive. Dead End shivered and bucked, urging those fingers deeper into his spark, feeling Vortex’s overload build as his pace quickened. 

When the climax hit, it was as though Dead End’s spark had burst, his innards dipped in oil and his body warmed until he thought that he might melt. 

“Do you think they felt that?” Vortex asked, holding still inside him, his lips on Dead End’s throat. 

“Primus I hope not.” Dead End shuddered, waiting for the telltale bleed through the team bond, the echo of Motormaster’s rage a fraction of a second before the inevitable comm. 

Nothing. 

Vortex closed his chest and hoisted Dead End’s legs over his shoulders, feet dangerously close to his rotor blades. When he withdrew, Dead End squirmed, but Vortex cleaned him and buffed him and didn’t leave a single smear to marr the shine of his paintwork. 

The same could not be said of Vortex’s fingers. Dead End blinked up at him, drowsy and warm. “You’re hurt,” he said. 

“It’s just paint,” Vortex replied. He lifted Dead End, and carried him over to the bunk. “You can kiss them better for me later.”

“Mm-hmm.” The drowsiness was irresistible. Dead End yawned, and stretched. He felt Vortex withdraw through the interface, felt the connectors disengage. He turned onto his front, and let recharge claim him. 

* * *

Breakdown twitched on his bunk. Motormaster was out, doing some commanders-only training session or something. Breakdown checked the bond every minute, in case Scrapper or Onslaught or Hun-Grrr had got the better of him. But Motormaster was attentive, slightly bored. It didn’t change. 

He cringed and checked the bond for Dead End. He hadn’t wanted to, not since Dead End had sped off in alt mode for Vortex’s room earlier that evening. Breakdown had taken a pack of oil chews and a few data slugs from the rec room and barricaded himself on the corner of his bunk. He’d tried watching the old films Motormaster had got for them, Cybertronian epics with apocalyptic themes that suited Breakdown’s mood. But he hadn’t been able to focus, his thoughts turning to Dead End and the doom he was courting. 

And the interfacing they would inevitably engage in. 

Breakdown sniffed the last of the chews in case it had gone off since he tore the seal from the pack, and tentatively sucked the end. On screen the Quintessons massed a final desperate attack against their errant slaves, but there was no meaning to it. It was just colour and movement and noise, and Breakdown felt itchy from the inside out. 

But Dead End hadn’t been interfacing. Or if he had, it hadn’t been any good. There was no grating bloom of arousal fulfilled, no nasty lingering tingles in places Breakdown never wanted them. They weren’t his own, those feelings. They were invaders, as unnatural to him as combination was to Skywarp. 

He pinged for Dead End’s location, in case Vortex had taken him somewhere. Somewhere dark and terrible, somewhere he could enact the final stages of his horrible plan. But Dead End was in Vortex’s room, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. 

Maybe they _had_ been intimate. Breakdown made a face at the thought. But if they had, then Dead End really had learnt to control what he sent through the bond. And if he’d learnt to control it, then maybe he could teach that to Wildrider and Drag Strip. Or maybe Vortex had drugged him and done unspeakable things to him and he was so tired because he was only clinging to life. 

Breakdown squirrelled further into his fort, and tried to focus on the screen. He checked for Motormaster again, finding patient boredom and a questing mind looking back at him. Breakdown expected a comm, but instead there came a flash of warm comfort, a promise for later, an assurance that the training was almost done. 

Swallowing the rest of his chew, Breakdown focused on the screen. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too long. 

* * *

Dead End passed through the space bridge without the dampener. Vortex had shown him how to remove it, a tricky process involving code swaps and a really annoying little clip that Dead End couldn’t undo without tweezers. It was sitting in a box under his bunk, waiting for him to come back. 

He drove at the rear of the convoy, tailing Breakdown, sensors trained on nothing. His spark felt weird, his chest felt weird. Everything was weird and open and empty. It was as though his armour had melted away and the workings of his mind were open for all to read. 

They probably were. And this was probably the end. No more Vortex, no more happiness, no more fleeting joy in his life. Just the endless miles and the dust and the distant promise of a dull, painful death at the hands of an Autobot sniper. 

Dead End couldn’t believe Earth was safe. Chromia was out there, somewhere. Probably on Cybertron, but who knew? Bluestreak had been captured just before the great victory, only to be stolen by Elita 1 in the chaos of the celebrations. And there were others, Protectobots, grounders, a few fliers, not that he could remember their names. 

The raid went to plan, Dead End forming part of the defence around Motormaster as Breakdown loaded him up. There was some shooting, but the humans mostly cowered behind their drone vehicles, chattering to each other over their primitive radios. The drones weren’t yet weaponised, but their onboard computers were becoming more complex, their defensive shields stronger. Reverse engineering was bound to happen, Dead End thought, and sighed. It was only a matter of time before raids on Earth became a challenge again. 

They were driving back to the space bridge when Breakdown slowed to Dead End’s position, drawing up alongside. He opened a comm channel. “What’s, um, on your mind?” 

“Nothing,” Dead End said. “There’s a certain aesthetic to Midwestern sunsets, don’t you think?”

“Um, maybe?” Breakdown’s engine revved a little harder than necessary. “That’s not what I meant. Are you and Vortex… are you still…”

“Yes,” Dead End said. “Are you and Motormaster?”

Breakdown’s indignance was clear, although the team bond had been closed since they’d cleared the roadblocks. “Why don’t you talk to me any more?”

“Because you ask intrusive questions,” Dead End replied. He scanned the skies. A few human-made helicopters circled at a wary distance.

“We used to talk,” Breakdown said. “Do you talk to _him_ about us?”

“Of course not,” Dead End snapped, and Breakdown went quiet. They drove like that a while until the red of the sunset was replaced by the red of Motormaster’s tail lights. “Do you want to talk to me?” Dead End asked. 

Breakdown veered right, close enough so that their energy fields briefly touched. “I want it to be like it used to be,” he said. “You used to tell me scrap, like... What are you reading?”

“I’m… not really reading,” Dead End said, and knew it was the wrong answer. 

“You _are_ reading, I saw you just the other day in the rec room! You had a data pad, don’t tell me you were just staring at the screen.”

“I… all right, but it’s nothing important. I don’t want to bore you.”

Breakdown drifted into the far left of his lane. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You wouldn’t read anything if you didn’t think it was important. Is it something Vortex gave you? Is it something bad?”

“What? No!” Dead End struggled to keep his position. “It’s a novel, all right? It’s just a stupid novel.”

“What kind of novel? You don’t read novels!”

“I read to broaden my horizons,” Dead End corrected him. “I’m trying some Golden Age literature.”

Breakdown edged back into the centre of his lane. “Golden Age?’ he said. “Is it… Is it something Vortex told you to read?”

“Primus below, no!” Dead End glared at Motormaster’s rear. “It’s just a novel, it’s called _Heliostatic_ and it’s by an author called Triple-Lock. You can download it from the library back home.”

Breakdown’s engine took on a sullen tone. “Just a book?” he said. 

“Just a book.”

“What’s it about?” Breakdown said, but Motormaster cut in before Dead End could reply. 

“Cut the chatter, two miles until the space bridge. Be on your guard.”

“Acknowledged,” Dead End replied. 

“Tell me later?” Breakdown asked on a narrow private channel. Dead End flashed his lights to signal a yes before Motormaster could start yelling at them. 

* * *

Later didn’t come. Vortex called the moment Dead End’s shift was over, and Dead End had no intention of waiting around. He sped back to the dorm, grabbed the spark dampener, rushed through the shower, and only finished buffing the last of the wax from his hood a few paces from Vortex’s door. 

The effort was worth it judging by the look on Vortex’s face. But instead of tugging him inside, Vortex slipped out and activated the lock. “Are you fuelled?” he asked. 

“Mostly,” Dead End replied. “What do you have in mind?”

He caught a flash of a grin before Vortex’s mask slid into place. “Come with me and you’ll find out.”

Dead End knew he could have insisted, but there was a thrill to following Vortex off the base. They transformed outside the main gates, and Dead End drove in the wash from Vortex’s rotors, a fantasy of abduction and a slow erotic end playing out in his mind. 

At first the road was smooth, but it grew rougher the further they travelled. Dead End glanced behind him, the lights of Polyhex a glowing dome on the horizon. He took a left, exiting the highway, and had to swerve to avoid a crack in the road bigger than Motormaster. 

The minor roads were well paved, but they were old and worn, clotted with dust and debris. Grit showered his undercarriage, kicked up by his tires, and he slowed. But he did not stop. He’d been here before, on patrol. The ruins gave way to buildings, the new shanties of the neutrals, a few solid remnants of an age gone by jutting up between makeshift corrugated sheds. 

Vortex transformed mid air and landed in a flashy crouch in the road ahead. Dead End pulled up and reverted to root mode, his lip curling as he gave his paintwork a brief inspection. 

“You look fine,” Vortex said. “Come on, this way.”

“I’d better,” Dead End responded. He flicked a cloth over the parts he could easily reach, and followed Vortex down a side street. 

It had been something once, an arcade of shops with ornate frontages and large glowing signs. Now their glass was broken or missing, their twining ironwork bent out of shape. Some buildings were gone, the walls of their neighbours discoloured by flames long extinguished. Some walls bore gaping holes, and some were covered over with the thinnest sheet steel and tattered flapping tarps. 

Dead End skirted the ruins, tailing Vortex through the clearest path at the center of the road. There were people here, dull glow of optics from the shadows, skitter of claws on stone. 

They took a sharp left in a gap that had once been a side street and was now a jumble of broken masonry and tortured metal. Dead End smiled under his mask and committed the landscape to his long-term storage. There was grime underfoot, a pool of oil seeping rancid from under a heap of shattered paving slabs. A jumble of morbid grey parts flinched at their approach, orange visor igniting and the whole freakish mess cringing as they passed. 

“How far now?” Dead End asked, but Vortex just flicked a rotor in a gesture Dead End had come to think of as semi-seductive, and walked on. He really could be walking to his doom, alone with the only person he knew who had committed serial murder. Not kills during war, but actual premeditated murder, and not just once but countless times over the aeons. Dead End suppressed a shudder. 

“Watch your step,” Vortex said, ducking under a fallen arch and vanishing in shadow. Dead End followed quickly, biting his lip. The alley beyond was empty, dark. Dead End adjusted his vision, and was greeted by a narrow world of red and silver. Rust was the base coat, an underlayer of crumbling, ancient metal over which new panels had been bolted, new doors fixed. Vortex stepped up to one and plugged his wrist cable into the simple lock in the jamb. Something inside whirred and thunked and the door swung open. 

Inside was pitch black until the door was closed again and locked and Vortex switched on the lights. The single tube flickered, a tiny neon bulb with writing on the end in English and Chinese. Vortex bounded up a short flight of stairs and plugged into the next lock. Dead End took the opportunity to get a little more dust off his arms and chest, and followed at a sedate pace. If he was going to his doom, he would do so with dignity and poise. 

Vortex’s mask slid back and he beckoned Dead End closer. “In here,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you a surprise.”

Trembling, Dead End crossed the threshold. Inside looked like an apartment. It was dingy and small and the few pieces of furniture looked like salvage. It was lit like the hallway with imported bulbs, and the single small window had been boarded over from the inside. 

Something moved in the corner and Dead End froze. A figure came into the light, short and slim with yellow eyes and the gleam of polish about her. 

“Hi,” she said. “You must be Dead End, your partner here told me all about you.”

“This is Fragment,” Vortex said, taking Dead End’s hand and weaving their fingers together. “She’s agreed to help us.”

Fragment nodded, her lop-sided smile clashing with the sharp gleam of her optics. “Tex here explained your problem,” she said. “I’d be happy to help you with it, if you’d like that.”

“Explained?” Dead End looked to Vortex. He pinged for a private comm, but Vortex was leading him towards the battered old sofa and the request went unanswered. The sofa had an aura of bleach, and the seats looked recently scrubbed, but Dead End winced as he sat.

“I’m sure this must be horribly uncomfortable for you.” Fragment knelt in front of him. 

“That’s one way to put it,” Dead End said. 

Fragment patted his knee. “You have a lovely voice,” she said. “Tell me, how would you like to do this?”

“We’ll need a few moments alone first,” Vortex said. “If you don’t mind?”

Fragment nodded and stood. “I’ll go get myself ready. Just holla when you want me.” The apartment couldn’t have had more than two rooms, but Fragment managed to make herself scarce. 

“What is this?” Dead End asked by comm. “What’s she doing?”

“She’s going to be your sparkmate,” Vortex replied, tugging Dead End’s hand to his lips and kissing his fingers. “Briefly.”

“And she’s… She’s aware of this? Of course she isn’t. What does she think is wrong with me?”

“Spark corrosion,” Vortex said. “She thinks you need a nice good bond to keep you safe.”

“But she… But she’s a neutral, she’s alive.”

“Slingshot was alive,” Vortex reminded him. 

“Slingshot was condemned to death.” Dead End glanced around, wishing for another flood of coolant. “He was going to die anyway, so was Sideswipe. She’s just a person.”

Vortex shrugged. “It’s your call,” he said. 

Dead End looked into Vortex’s optics through the sheen of his visor. “Aren’t there any more prisoners?”

“Not now,” Vortex replied. “None that we’d have clear access to. Slingshot was enough of a risk, if Soundwave detects a pattern…”

Dead End looked down. “Yes, yes I understand.”

Vortex patted his hand. “We need to be careful.”

Dead End nodded. “We can…” He coughed and started again. “We can make it easier for her,” he said. “She isn’t our enemy.”

“We can make it as smooth as you like,” Vortex said. “She’s cute, isn’t she? And she’s happy to bond with you.”

“She thinks I’m broken. What did you tell her?”

Vortex stole a brief kiss. “She isn’t doing it out of the goodness of her spark,” he said. 

“You’re… paying her?”

“Sure.” Vortex flicked a spec of dust from Dead End’s shoulder. “And don’t worry, she’s clean, no viruses. I had the medic here check her out.”

Dead End vented deep. “We don’t cause her any pain,” he said. “Physical or mental.”

Vortex kissed him again, and ran his hands down Dead End’s chest. “Sure thing,” he said. “Do you have your dampener?”

Dead End nodded. “It’s in place,” he said. 

A noise like falling boxes sounded from the other room. “Sorry!” Fragment called. “Nothing’s broken!”

“You can come back in!” Vortex called back. 

“You boys were awfully quiet.” Fragment shook a chunk of corrugated card off her foot as she came back into the main room. “I take it you’ve had a nice spark-to-spark.”

Dead End looked up. She had her arms folded, and that lop-sided smile was firmly in place. He wondered if it was a quirk, but no, there was a welding scar running the full length of her face, partly hidden by the shadow of her helm. It was faint, but as soon as he’d noticed it he couldn’t not see it. 

She rubbed her hands together, looking from him to Vortex and back. “How do you want to do this? I get dizzy sometimes when I merge, so if you want to do it standing one of you might need to catch me.”

“You merge a lot?” Dead End asked, and instantly wished that he hadn’t. 

“Oh it’s not like that!” Fragment laughed. “I have… had, a partner. A sparkmate. She, um, she’s no longer with us.”

“What happened?” Dead End asked, watching her smile waver and her hands clasp tightly together. 

“She… An Autobot sniper caught her. It was dark, and she was an airframe. We… we think they thought she was one of you guys. But hey, I don’t wanna be a downer, and we’re all here to help you so...” She rocked on her heels. “What’s your preference?”

Dead End coughed. He looked to Vortex, and got nothing but a smile of encouragement, a tantalising flicker of his energy field. 

“How about we make you nice and comfortable?” Fragment suggested. “I think the couch thing transforms?”

“I think it used to,” Vortex said. He beckoned Fragment closer, passing her Dead End’s hand. She took it with a smile and looked down into his optics. Vortex shuffled over, giving them some space. 

“How about you lay down,” Fragment said, as Vortex tapped Dead End’s leg, encouraging him to lift his feet up onto his lap. 

Dead End allowed himself to be manouvered. Fragment’s hands weren’t exactly smooth, but they were clean and small, and her touch was so light that it felt soft. She straddled his hips, no trace of need in her field, but a hint of nervousness underneath the buzz of calm self-assurance. Her fingertips lingered on his insignia, and she bit her lip. “Would you like your partner to connect us?” she said. “Or maybe you could?”

“Vortex?” Dead End said, and felt the rotary shift under his feet. He licked his lips, venting a little faster as Vortex deftly opened his cover before turning his attention to Fragment. It was surprisingly titillating, so much better than watching Drag Strip and Wildrider paw at each other while Motormaster issued commands. 

Vortex slid a hand over Fragment’s hip, the panel sliding away under his palm. She laughed, the undercurrent of nervousness growing stronger. But she leaned into his touch, still smiling. “I’m ready,” she whispered, and gasped as Vortex connected them. 

Dead End’s optics brightened, his vents stilled. She was a colourburst in his mind, a blaze of orange and yellow fading to the pale hue of sun-washed limestone. It matched the tang of her energy field and the warm glow of her spark. She laughed across the connection, and they pinged for access at exactly the same time. 

Fragment was first to open, and her spark was the same pale gold as her presence in his mind, as her optics as she gazed down at him. She bit her lip, a sliver of warmth passing into him. For a while he could do nothing but stare. Her spark was whole and full and beautiful. No dark fissures threatening to break, no greying streaks of impending doom. He couldn’t kill her. He looked to Vortex who was lounging now, smirking, his hands resting on Dead End’s feet where they lay on his lap. He nodded, and Dead End forced his vents to restart. His core was heating, his spark responding to the signals in the connection, to the sight of Fragment laid bare before him. 

“May I kiss you?” Dead End asked, and the approval from Vortex was clear. Fragment laughed again and leaned down to press her silvered lips to his. This was better, kinder. He could lose himself in this, could imagine she was simply a lover, that they were putting on a show. He deepened the kiss, drawing her in as Vortex did so often with him, and was surprised at how soon he made her rev. 

“Let me see you,” she said, pulling back just enough to allow him to open his chest. “Oh wow.” She stroked the edges of his parted armour, her whole body bathed in purple light. It drowned her spark, her optics. She took his hand and placed his fingers inside her chest, spark energy scattering tiny explosions through his sensor set.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, and the look she gave him was so full of newfound fondness he wasn’t sure he could bear it. 

“Sure I do,” she said, her light beginning to swell. 

It was easy this time. Dead End knew the codes, the commands. And so did Fragment, passing through each layer with him until their cores merged and a slow and lazy overload lit their melded self. 

Fragment slumped on top of him, a warm buzz of exhilaration swamped by the effects of their exertion. “I never thought it’d be like that,” she said, as their sparks began to settle. She turned to glance at Vortex. “Enjoying the view back there?”

“Very much,” Vortex replied, easing himself out from beneath Dead End’s feet. “Mind if I…” he began, swinging a cable of his own in his hand. 

“Kinky,” Fragment replied and swayed her hips. “But that’s how you combiners roll, isn’t it? All together...”

Vortex knelt on the sofa and kissed her lightly, stroking the row of available ports. Dead End sensed a query from her, an invitation of sorts, and agreed to it without hesitation. The overload had only served to stir his additional hardware, the heat within him coiling and growing. 

Then Vortex tensed, and a split second later the comm equipment on his arm began to flash. He swore and clambered off the sofa. He was quiet a moment, glancing quickly at Fragment, his rotors still. Dead End focused, trying to catch the stir of sub-vocal communication. 

“Is he talking to his team?” Fragment asked over their connection. “I saw your team, little glimpses. They… They’re very rough and ready, aren’t they?”

Dead End nodded, panicking suddenly at the thought that she could have seen too much. But she was smiling still, and he was here with Vortex, and even if she had seen too much they could deal with it. 

“You’re not like them,” Fragment said, squirming to get comfortable. “You like books, don’t you? Torque liked books.” 

Torque, her sparkmate, dead and gone but living still in the brief flashes of memory he’d experienced when they merged. He nodded, and pulled her close to stop himself from thinking too hard about what she might have experienced in turn. 

“We gotta go,” Vortex said. “Right now.” He offered a hand to Fragment, helping her stand, and swiftly disconnected them. 

“What? Now?” Dead End sighed, but his spark was churning. 

“You’ll come back soon?” Fragment asked, while Dead End wondered how Vortex could leave her standing. 

“Very soon,” Vortex said. “Just make yourself at home. Here.” He passed her a credit chip. “Refuel, the good stuff. Go have some fun. We’ll be back, I promise.”

Fragment swayed when Vortex let her go. She stared at the chip, then at Dead End where he’d turned in the doorway to look at her. 

“We promise,” he said, and darted after Vortex.


	8. Chapter 8

They were halfway down the main street before Dead End remembered the inhibitor clamped to his spark chamber. “I can’t go back,” he said, clamping a hand to his chest. “They’ll know.”

“They’ll know if you take it out,” Vortex responded. He took a running leap just past the final building, his root mode thrusters spiralling him into a fast transformation. “Just say you had it installed to stop you over-sharing.”

“I have a _spark bond!_ ” Dead End snapped, tires spinning as he transformed, wondering why in Primus’ name he didn’t just turn around and drive in the other direction. “They’ll find out! How can I hide that from them? We were meant to be alone until we… Until the end. This wasn’t meant to happen!”

Vortex flew low, matching Dead End’s acceleration. “Rule one,” he said. “Don’t panic.” 

“I’m not panicking! How is ‘don’t panic’ any kind of advice?” 

“Rule two, keep the signal dampener in.”

“Can I even combine with this in?” Dead End heard the whine in his voice, felt the ache deep in his core. Fragment was thinking of him, wistful and oddly pragmatic; he couldn’t tell why. She could feel his fear, his urgency. “Why isn’t it blocking the sparkbond signals!”

“Yes you can combine with it, I already told you, and no, I don’t know why it isn’t blocking the signals,” Vortex said. “It’s a techy thing, it does what it does.”

“You are so useful!”

“Now now.” Vortex flew even lower, the shadow of his undercarriage over Dead End’s windshield. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “You’re going to keep the signal dampener in because that’s the only thing keeping your sparkbond out of your team bond, OK?”

Dead End’s weapons powered up, his tires burned. “But they’ll know it’s there! What if I have to combine? Motormaster’s going to kill me!”

“No he’s not,” Vortex said. 

“What if she runs away!” Dead End yelled. “What if she isn’t there when we get back and we don’t know where she went, and I’m stuck with this?”

Vortex sighed. “That’s not going to happen. But if it does we tell them I took you to a wild party and you got drunk and passed out and when you woke up you were bonded to a neutral. They can’t exactly blame you for that. Weirder things have happened.”

“But they’ll know the truth!”

“No they won’t,” Vortex said with such surety that Dead End couldn’t muster a response. “You don’t know their secrets, they don’t know yours. Gestalts don’t share a mind when they combine, they make a new one. You think I know everything going on in Swindle’s slimy little brain? Or that Ons gets to peek into my classified files whenever we merge? That’s not how it works.”

“But Motormaster will know!”

“No he won’t! He just knows how to make you think he will.”

The glow of Polyhex grew and divided and Dead End wished he had the will to make a U turn and speed the other way. Back to Fragment, back to that stinking little slum, or further, anywhere as long as it didn’t involve Motormaster. 

“Did they even tell you what was happening?” Dead End demanded. He grimaced inwardly; the grit clung to him, the miniscule dings in his wax would take ages to buff out. 

“Nope,” Vortex said. “I just got the call from command. All off-duty units to return to base.”

“All of us?” Dead End gaped. “Why didn’t Motormaster tell me himself?”

“Because this came directly from Control,” Vortex said. “Swindle’s on comms duty right now. He knows you’re with me.”

“But… Motormaster…” Dead End fell silent. He sped up the exit ramp towards the base, and pulled up hard, swinging around in a spray of dust. He gunned his engine, the reverb rippling through his spark. 

Vortex transformed and landed, glaring up at the security cameras. The scanner beside them whined briefly and the gates opened. 

Dead End rolled slowly forward, then transformed with a huff of disgust. A message had appeared on his HUD, an instruction to head to the atrium. Vortex laid a hand on his arm, a soothing tone in his energy field. “You’ll be OK,” he said. 

“OK?” Dead End rolled his optics. “Do you take anything seriously?”

Vortex gave him a brief squeeze, putting Dead End slightly off balance. “I take everything seriously,” he said. “And seriously, you need to stop worrying about the team stuff. Whatever happens, happens, right?”

Dead End looked at Vortex, and his optics flickered. “We’re all doomed anyway,” he said quietly. 

* * *

Breakdown fidgeted in Motormaster’s shadow. He didn’t like the atrium. All that open starry sky, all that space. The rank and file of the Decepticon army wandered in with the usual mix of excitement, irritation and boredom inspired by a call to listen to one of Megatron’s speeches. Every so often one of them glanced at him, and he had to focus on the smooth hum of Motormaster’s energy field to stop his engine revving the wrong way. 

Megatron was at the podium, Soundwave by his side. Starscream was up there too, somewhere. Breakdown didn’t care. It would be over with soon, and he could go back to sorting stupid cogs in the stupid medbay stores with stupid Drag Strip who thought it was a competition. 

He spun his tires and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Megatron had started speaking. Breakdown wondered if Megatron had ever had to sort cogs for a condescending perfectionist drill bit like Hook. He sighed and made a brief effort to listen, but there were so many people, so many voices. And so many of the soldiers had visors; who could tell if they were looking at him? He winced. Then he spotted Dead End and his spark lurched. 

He looked up at Motormaster, but Motormaster’s attention was on Megatron. Breakdown scanned the immediate area, wound his engine to an irritating low whine, and set out through the crowd. 

There were many things Breakdown hated, but his engine ability was not one of them. The blank stares of earlier were replaced by wary glances as he passed by, and people actively shuffled or leaned out of his way. 

Dead End was with Vortex. Standing side by side, as though they were team. Breakdown’s lip curled and he had to pause a moment to get his engine back under control. Vortex was up to something. There was no other explanation for their closeness, one of the Combaticon’s rotor blades resting on Dead End’s shoulder. 

Breakdown accessed the bond. Dead End was there, but barely. He read as alive, conscious, close, and that was it. No spark energy readings, no fuel consumption figures, no hint as to his mental state. 

Snarling, Breakdown could imagine his mental state. Hopelessly in lust. Duped and manipulated. Taken in by a professional liar and led to goodness knew what. Breakdown crept closer, taking in the state of Dead End’s bodywork, the way his fingers kept twitching. 

On the podium, Megatron announced something and a cheer went up that made Breakdown cringe. But the noise was good cover, and he snuck up behind them as close as he could. Dead End had really let himself go. His paint was dusty and dull, and there were scuff marks on the backs of his legs. What had Vortex been doing to him?

Shivering, Breakdown studied Vortex. He was just as dirty. Had they been fighting? 

Another cheer went up, and there was commotion on the platform, a parade of prisoners. Breakdown wondered how high he’d need to rev his engine and for how long before he could make Vortex fall apart. 

Then the meeting was over, and the crowds began to move. Breakdown darted between two large grounders, waiting until Dead End and Vortex had turned around and begun to wander towards the exit. Breakdown glared at them and followed. 

* * *

Darting through the door to Vortex’s room, Dead End threw himself on the sofa. “I hate him,” he mumbled into the padding. “I hate them all!”

Vortex hummed agreement, or at least Dead End thought it was agreement. It was sometimes hard to tell if he couldn’t see the rotary’s blades. 

“That was completely unnecessary! They didn’t need to call us back, they could have televised it! Soundwave should know better.”

“Uh-huh.” Vortex rubbed Dead End’s shoulder on his way past, and there was a clattering from the closet. “Here,” Vortex said, returning and scooping his fingers under Dead End’s face, encouraging him to look up. “Got you some high grade. You need it. Then you need a shower.”

Dead End groaned. “I need for Primus to open up and swallow me.”

“High grade first,” Vortex said. “And let’s take a look at your spark.”

With a moan of protest, Dead End hoisted himself vaguely upright. He took the sizable cube from Vortex’s hands and knocked it back like coolant while Vortex hit the manual release on his plug and port cover and connected them. 

“Firewalls down, lets see those readouts.” 

Dead End sighed and shook the last few drops from the cube into his mouth. “You sound like the doctor from that show Wildrider likes to pretend he doesn’t watch.” 

“Don’t go sharing team secrets now,” Vortex said, his energy field rippling with fond amusement. 

Dead End pushed the cube onto the side table, balanced on top of a pile of datasheets and random junk, and slumped. “I can see her,” he said. “She’s plugged into a mini VR set. She’s playing one of those mining puzzle games.”

“She’s not left the apartment?” Vortex asked. 

“No. She’s just… waiting? Scrap, she knows I’m looking.” Dead End retreated from the bond, and scratched his chest over his spark. “Why did we have to come back? What the frag is wrong with people!”

“Megsy likes an audience,” Vortex replied. He gently withdrew from Dead End’s systems and disconnected them. “All right, let’s get you through the washracks.”

Dead End glanced down at his arms and grimaced. “I’m disgusting.”

“You’re beautiful,” Vortex countered, kissing him lightly and tapping him on the nose. “Come on, your team won’t need to ask where you went if they don’t know you went anywhere. And besides...” His touch wandered lower, but Dead End hardly noticed. 

“My team? But we’re not being attacked, we can just go back out, we don’t need to see them.” 

Vortex shook his head. “I’ve been called back,” he said. “The cells are full and Megatron wants some intel.”

“But… but what about Fragment?! How long will you be?”

“As long as it takes,” Vortex said. “I mean sure I want you to stay here while I’m gone, but there’s no promise I’ll be done before your next shift.”

Dead End gaped at him in horror. 

Vortex smirked, and drew a glyph in the grime on his chest. “Shower?”

Dead End rolled his optics. “If you’re going to continue to write obscenities on me,” he said. 

“It’s a compliment,” Vortex countered, tugging Dead End off the sofa. 

“Of course,” Dead End said, pausing a moment while his spark whirled and his vents caught. “You would think that.”

* * * 

Breakdown lurked around the corner from Vortex’s room, ready to rev his engine if anyone came too close or looked at him the wrong way. Dead End flowed in and out of the team bond, a muffled presence made of nothing more than the basic dry facts. Breakdown didn’t like it. 

He liked it even less when the door opened and the two of them emerged. Stupid rotary, his hands in places hands shouldn’t be in public, his voice too quiet for Breakdown to catch much more than the tone. 

They vanished into what must have been a shower room, and Breakdown crept closer only to hear the sound of the lock engaging. He shuddered. Whatever they were about to do, he didn’t want to know about it. It was vile and thoughtless, and why hadn’t Dead End even come to see them when he got back on base? What was so special about Vortex that made Dead End neglect to even bother to find them at Megatron’s summons? They were Megatron’s own creations, born of Vector Sigma itself; they should be together when important things happened. 

Breakdown lingered until the mumble of conversation gave way to a more rhythmic set of noises. Lip curled and spark queasy, he slunk off in the direction of Motormaster and the rest of their team. 

* * *

When Vortex left Dead End was still warm from his last overload. He cooled slowly, his engine and armour pinging in the calm quiet of Vortex’s room. He ached inside and out, but it was a good ache, and gave him the smug satisfaction of knowing he’d done things that Wildrider and Drag Strip could only dream about. 

He lay on the sofa, arms dangling, strutless and vaguely thirsty for coolant. He assessed the distance to the closet Vortex stored his supplies, and lay his head back on the armrest. There were data pads on the side table, the remote for the TV. He didn’t reach for them. There were data pads in his own subspace, but even that was too much effort. Maybe he could sleep a while, and when he woke up Vortex would be here and they could go back to Fragment and finish what they’d started. 

His spark stirred, and for one terrible moment he thought it was Motormaster summoning him back to the Stunticon dorm. But his comms lit up, and his spark resonated with nervous laughter. 

With a huge effort, Dead End took the call. “Fragment?”

“Hi, um, is it OK to call you? I didn’t know your freq so I kinda used the sparkbond to find out. I hope that’s all right.”

Dead End blinked. “Uh. Yes, that’s perfectly fine. Um. We, uh-”

“I need to talk to you,” Fragment said. “I… need to come clean about something.”

“Excuse me?” Dead End sat straighter, a hand over his chest. “What do you mean?”

Fragment sighed, and the sparkbond rippled with a mixture of frustration and nerves. “I needed the money, OK?” She sighed. “I’m doing this because your partner’s paying me to. I… just didn’t want you to think I was doing it out of some altruistic motivation or something. You’re so sweet and all.”

“Sweet?”

She laughed. “How about comparatively sweet? But you kind of are. I don’t know what I expected, but you weren’t it. Tex said you were a groundframe, I thought you’d be a tank or something.”

“Um…” Dead End stared up at the ceiling. “Thankyou? I, uh, don’t know how long it’ll be before we can come back. Vortex got called in to work.”

“Scrap, that’s too bad.” The anxiety ebbed a little from Fragment’s signature, but Dead End could still feel the frustration. “OK, this is going to be weird, asking you this. I mean, there wasn’t any mention of exclusivity or anything when I talked this through with Tex. But it was nice, with you, and I was kinda hoping we could have some fun when you come back...”

“Of course! We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“I know, it’s cool,” Fragment said. “Just, uh, you kinda left me hanging here and the bond is driving me crazy. New bonds do that to me, it’s a thing. It’s not gonna bug you if I go spend some cash on a friend for the night, is it?”

Dead End swallowed. “No, um, that’s fine. Just… If you go anywhere, let me know where you are?” _To make sure you’re safe_ , he wanted to add, but he couldn’t for fear she’d hear the lie in it. He focused on the warmth in his circuits, and tried not to look too closely into the bond. 

“Cool!” Fragment said. “I mean, I thought it’d be fine, given, y’know, with your partner just now. I just wanted to check.”

Dead End hid his face in his hands. 

“Hey, it’s fine!” Fragment laughed. “I didn’t look, I promise.”

Rolling slowly until he could press his face into the seatback Dead End groaned. “But you could tell,” he said. 

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Fragment said, the sparkbond warming slightly with what Dead End could only imagine was meant to be reassurance. “It’s a small price for a healthier spark, right?”

“But… you saw…”

The transmissions through the bond became playful. “I told you, I didn’t look. It was just pretty obvious what you guys were doing.”

Dead End rolled onto his front. “What... exactly could you experience?” he said slowly. 

“The usual,” Fragment said. “Little flashes of input. Like, I could hear water, and there was that solvent smell.” The playfulness gave way a moment to a fuzzy slice of memory, Dead End against the wall, his legs around Vortex’s hips, his full port quivering in overload. 

Dead End gasped, and Fragment snickered. 

“That kinda thing,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

“My team minds,” Dead End moaned, then winced. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Nope, I don’t suppose you should,” Fragment responded, but she was clearly entertained. “I don’t want any big bad combiner team secrets, that won’t go well for me.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the amusement in the bond or Fragment’s light approach to just about everything, but some of the tension eased. “Tell me something,” he said. “Was it just the money? Why did you agree to help me?”

He had a flash of insight, Fragment leaning by the window, the boards pried off, looking at her own reflection in the cracked glass. “Do you really want to know?” she asked, her fading smile half-cocked.

“Yes,” Dead End replied.

“I’m lonely,” she said. “I didn’t want another sparkmate, not after Torque. But I wanted the bond. Just that feeling there’s someone else out there.”

“I can’t begin to imagine,” Dead end said. 

“I don’t suppose you can, you combiners are so lucky.” There was a pause, but silence didn’t matter when the bond showed clear mutual awareness. “You seem tired,” Fragment said. “You should get some sleep. Primus knows, I’m planning on keeping you awake when you finally get back here.”

Dead End tried to stop himself from smiling into the armrest and failed. “I look forward to it,” he said. Only when the comm went blank did he curl in on himself, grimacing. How could he kill her? She wasn’t an Autobot, she wasn’t even an enemy. She was kind and honest and attractive, although Dead End was aware of the sparkbond’s influence on the latter perception. She wasn’t shiny or modern or bulky, or anything Dead End usually found appealing. But the way she moved, the way she touched him, he could happily have that again. 

But if Motormaster found out he might kill her himself. Or kill Vortex for finding her and letting them bond. And then he’d find out about the prisoners, and Dead End’s life would be over. And not in the literal sense where actually it might be OK because nothing would matter again, but in the figurative sense where everything would be dull grey misery for aeon after aeon. 

Dead End leaned over and wiggled his fingers until he had a grip on the remote. He turned on the TV, swapping channels until he got to one showing old Cybertronian space operas. He dropped the remote on the floor and tried not to think. He just had to wait until Vortex was back. Vortex would do all the thinking for him. 

* * *

Dead End dreamed of Fragment. She straddled him, provocative and open, but he couldn’t see her face, only the sodium glow of her spark. He turned on the sofa, half awake. A slow cycle of caresses warmed him, a tongue slid inside his valve, lapping him to the brink while a hand lazily pumped his cord. 

He awoke with a start, his engine revving and his spike pressed painfully against the inside of its cover. The sparkbond rang with arousal, carrying the rest of him with it. He groaned, and sent a ping to Vortex, but the message that came back was automated. 

It wasn’t his only message. There was a summons from Motormaster, an order to report as soon as he was ‘awake and decent’, whatever that meant. There was a message, too, from Drag Strip. A mission report no doubt, something he needed proofreading. It was probably overdue already. It was nothing he could deal with until he got to his console, and nothing he was prepared to look at now anyway. 

Motormaster wanted him. 

He groaned, his insides aching with a fierce and desperate need. Motormaster wanted him, and all he could think about was interfacing. The sparkbond wasn’t helping. Whatever good-time bot Fragment had hired was certainly doing their job. Dead End retreated from it as far as he could, but it did nothing for the urges. What he wouldn’t give for Vortex’s lips around his cord, for Wildrider to pounce on him, for Breakdown to submit to curiosity one more time. 

His comms crackled to life, his own control over-ridden. “You’re awake,” Motormaster growled. “And yet you are not here.”

“I’m on my way!” Dead End cried. “I…”

“I don’t care how much of a polish you think you need. Get here, _now_.”

Dead End scrambled off the sofa, tugging a cloth from his sub space and giving himself the briefest once over. He probably shouldn’t have bothered, but Motormaster wanted him and the sooner he got through whatever ridiculous dressing down was coming, the better. 

He sped through the corridors, transforming for the main thoroughfares and blaring his horn at everyone stupid and slow enough to stand gawping in the way. This was it. His last stand, his final moment of freedom. The cretins could eat his dust, and be grateful he didn’t open fire. 

He arrived panting and overwrought. His spark whirled, his head felt light. He mistyped his code three times before the lock flashed green and the door to the Stunticon dorm opened to let him in. 

Mind suddenly blank he followed his thirst to the rec room and was halfway through his second cannister of coolant before he remembered why he was there. He threw the rest back and nearly choked when he saw Motormaster lounging in the doorway. 

“How good of you to join us,” he said. 

Dead End’s optics narrowed. He swallowed carefully and placed the empty can in the waste chute. 

“You couldn’t join us earlier? Breakdown saw you at Megatron’s speech.”

Forcing air through his vents, Dead End dragged his optics up to meet Motormaster’s glare. “I… went for a drive,” he said. 

“Not during the speech you didn’t.” Motormaster scowled, arms crossed over his broad chest, hip jutting contrapposto. 

“I… didn’t want you to see me like this,” Dead End said. “Are, um, are the others here?”

“You should know, use the bond.”

“I can’t,” Dead End said, continuing quickly to counter the growing storm in Motormaster’s expression. “If I use the team bond they’ll be subjected to unwanted feelings. It was your decision, I can’t access the bond right now.”

“Unwanted feelings,” Motormaster repeated with more than a hint of derision. He sniffed, looking Dead End up and down. “They’re on duty. Are you glitching?”

“No,” Dead End said carefully. His fans softly whirred, his spark pulsing, tugging him forward. “I’m not glitching. I want to ask you something.”

“Out with it.”

Dead End’s circuits seemed to shudder, his energy field blazing. He coughed the static from his throat and spoke slowly, clearly. “Will you interface with me?”

“Excuse me?” 

“I want to interface,” Dead End said, stepping closer, giving Motormaster a taste of his energy field. “I want us to try again, just the two of us.”

Motormaster seized his shoulder, his engine stuttering. “You’re not glitching?” 

Dead End shook his head. “I think I was before,” he said, thinking of how Vortex would reply, how Vortex handled Motormaster. “To be very dry and scientific about it, I believe that my software protocols had not fully synched with my hardware. It happens in new builds.”

“And you’re an expert suddenly?”

“I read,” Dead End said. He lay a hand over Motormaster’s. “I’d like us to try.” His optics flickered a moment, an involuntary response to the needy contraction of his valve. Frag he felt empty. And there was every chance he couldn’t go through with it, that they’d get as far as they ever got and he’d balk and clench and nothing would work. But Motormaster was off balance, thoughtful, a note of interest in his energy signature. 

Dead End took his chance and stepped up close, pressing his hands to Motormaster’s chest. “I want you, please.”

He didn’t expect to be lifted and inspected and held at arm’s length, but the manhandling lent an edge to his arousal and he made no effort to prevent it from showing. 

“You want me?” Motormaster said, carrying him through into his private room and dumping Dead End in the centre of the bunk. “Prove it.”

Dead End got to his knees, his thighs parted. “Touch me?” he said. 

Motormaster advanced on him, pushing him on his back, a hand sliding between his legs. “You’re warm,” he said with apparent surprise, and gaped as Dead End retracted all his covers. He glanced around, his optics lighting on the interfacing manual sitting beside his console. 

“We don’t need that,” Dead End said, his vents shuddering, uneven. “Touch me some more, please!” He wasn’t fond of the desperation in his voice, but it had an instant effect on Motormaster. He pressed close, his engine roaring. Dead End groaned, arching to immerse his cord in the quivering buzz of Motormaster’s energy field. 

A huge, blunt fingertip found his opening and he gasped. Motormaster knelt up and lifted one of his legs, spreading him wide. The fingertip wiggled, and Dead End could feel it getting wetter, slicker, pushing against him, into him. He moaned, his cord leaking and his frame on fire. 

“Please!” he whispered. 

“Please what?” Motormaster rumbled.

“Deeper!” Dead End choked. “Faster, please!”

It wasn’t the expert handling Dead End received from Vortex, but his nodes didn’t care. The slightest touch was electric, the simplest movement lit him up. He got wetter by the second, a gross dribble of lubricants trickling onto the bunk. And for once he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was disgusting, filthy, dirty. He rippled his valve around Motormaster’s finger and bucked his hips. 

“You want this,” Motormaster said with something approaching awe. Dead End nodded, biting his lip and clutching at the bedcover. His overload was building fast, and he wondered if Motormaster knew enough to tell. 

Then Motormaster withdrew, and Dead End whined. 

“You sure you can take this?” Motormaster said, and while his tone was gruff, his energy field carried a hint of concern wrapped up in the anticipation and the longing. 

“Maybe… Make me overload first. It’s always easier.” He winced, but Motormaster either didn’t notice the reference to his time with Vortex or he didn’t care. He slid his fingers around Dead End’s rim, tickling his nodes and making his valve quake. This time the penetration was faster, more urgent, the ridges of the finger joints spreading a strange and pleasurable warmth around his opening. Only a single finger, again, and as much as Dead End yearned for the stretch of a cord he wasn’t sure he was quite ready for that much, not yet. 

He thought of Fragment, daring a glance into the bond, seeing her panting, grinning, looking down at the reflective glossy head of a pleasure drone between her legs. He thought of Vortex inside him for the first time, the glow of his overload, the impossible excitement of being taken frame and mind. Of being fucked as Sideswipe died, as Slingshot’s life was snuffed at the end of Megatron’s cannon. 

He came with an intensity he hadn’t expected, his valve clutching at Motormaster’s finger, his spark churning. He resisted as long as he could, but it was mere seconds before his spike discharged, spurting a trail of silver all over his belly and chest. 

“Is that enough?” Motormaster asked. Dead End nodded, and he withdrew too fast. Dead End hissed. The finger returned, probing. Concern overwhelmed Motormaster’s energy field. “Are you hurt?”

“No… no, it’s just intense,” Dead End said. He stared up at Motormaster’s face so as not to see the mess he’d made of his armour. But Motormaster had reached for a cloth and was wiping him down before he could rally his brain to form a response. “What…”

“You’re clean,” Motormaster said, despite all evidence to the contrary. “If you want a spike in you, you’ll get on your hands and knees, face the wall.”

Dead End shivered and rolled onto his front. His cables shook and his struts felt like rubber, but he raised his aft and curved his back, and focused on the kiss of cool air against his sensitised nodes. 

Motormaster grunted, and Dead End risked a glance behind himself. Motormaster had freed his cord, and was stroking the tip, spreading lubricant. He got into position, covering Dead End completely and looping an arm around his middle. 

He was smooth and wide and hard, and Dead End was afraid for one sickening moment that he’d clench and freeze and wouldn’t be able to take it. But Motormaster stroked the tip across his rim, letting the nodes sing out before edging a little way inside. Dead End couldn’t have clenched then had he wanted to. He pressed his face to the pillow, trying to rock his hips, trying to urge it further inside. 

Then Motormaster thrust hard, pushing all the way in, and Dead End howled. It was good that Motormaster was smooth. A cord that large with ridges that couldn’t be retracted would have destroyed him. As it was Dead End trod the line between pleasure and pain for the first few thrusts until his valve had fully relaxed and his sensor net recalibrated for this new input. 

Motormaster groaned as he thrust, holding Dead End still and pounding into him. He should have been slower, gentler, but the sparkbond needed this, Dead End needed it, and there was a thrill to being used like that, held and fucked, taken for his commander’s pleasure. 

He came again with a dizzying yelp, and again when Motormaster fumbled under him to pump his cord. 

By the time Motormaster climaxed inside him Dead End was strutless and limp, exhausted and thoroughly sated. Still his valve gave a weak shudder, his spark glowing with the echo of Motormaster’s overload. 

He hadn’t the energy to raise himself up out of the mess, let alone to comment as Motormaster gathered him up and carried him to the washracks. By the time they returned the cleaning bots had done their duty. 

But Motormaster carried Dead End into his own room. “Rest,” he ordered. “I have a meeting, I’ll be back after my shift.”

Dead End mumbled a response, but his bunk was pleasantly cool against his overheated frame, and he was asleep before Motormaster had let him go.


	9. Chapter 9

Dead End slept for most of the day and into the night. He heard Drag Strip return, singing crude Earth songs at the top of his voice. Wildrider soon followed, then Breakdown. Dead End drifted in and out of recharge, Fragment’s laugher at the back of his mind, her presence warming his spark. 

The team bond had never been like this. It was comfort and effortless closeness, which was absurd when he thought about it. He hardly knew her; he didn’t intend to know her. Yet there she was, present and whole and miserably perfect. 

Dead End waited until his team had retired before rolling off his bunk and slumping in the chair at his console. He opened the file Drag Strip had sent him. It was dreck, poorly worded and insufficiently punctuated. He did his best, but the report was for a training exercise Dead End hadn’t taken part in. He flagged the ambiguities with a little more venom than was absolutely necessary, and sent it back. 

He sighed, and called up their rotas. He had one more day of leave, just one more day to finish what he and Vortex had started. But Vortex was still busy, his comms still sending automated replies. 

Would he have to do it himself?

Dead End’s spark stilled. _Could_ he? He tilted up his visor and rubbed his optics. 

“Dead End?” 

For a second he thought it was Vortex and his frame came alive with hope, but then his brain caught up with his audials. 

“Commander,” Dead End replied quietly, watching the light flash on his arm. 

“May I come in?”

Confused, Dead End heaved himself out of the chair, and switched off the lock. 

“Sit down, I want to talk to you.”

Dead End nodded and took a seat on the edge of the bunk. Motormaster took the desk chair, sitting stiffly. Dead End stared resolutely at his face and tried to ignore the signals coming from his hardware. 

“You know that I had misgivings about your relationship,” Motormaster said. “In the light of new data I have come to adjust my opinion.”

Dead End struggled to pay attention. Motormaster’s lap was just the right size for him. He suppressed a shudder; this was far from helpful. He had to see Vortex. There were things they needed to do. Urgent things. He fidgeted, feigning a yawn to distract from his shivering.

Motormaster smirked. “Still tired?” he queried. 

“I… suppose so?”

“I think I can excuse it,” Motormaster said. “You were… quite energetic.”

Dead End shrugged. He pressed his lips tight together and wished he’d put on his mask. 

“I think this is what we need as a team.”

Clutching at the side of the bunk, Dead End nodded. He vented deep, and stopped trying to suppress the rising charge. “Again?” he whispered. 

Motormaster crooked a finger, beckoning him. Dead End stood, thinking of Vortex and Fragment, his cord cover opening, his spark growing hotter. 

“You’re eager,” Motormaster commented, and Dead End paused a moment to let himself be looked at. This, he decided, was good; the pleased surprise in his leader’s expression, the thrill of vulnerability at being thus exposed. “Come,” Motormaster commanded, and Dead End clambered into his lap, keeping his valve cover closed only by force of will. 

He let it open as soon as it was touched. There were no kisses, no long embrace and lingering caress. Dead End didn’t care. He brought his thighs apart as Motormaster leaned back, the chair transforming to accommodate them. He gripped the armrests to stay upright, grunting in an ugly display of need as Motormaster stroked his opening. 

Then Motormaster took a hold of his hip, keeping him still, and teased a finger inside. It was easily as wide as Breakdown’s cord, and the memory rose unbidden: Breakdown above him, in him, a brief wet fumbling. He tried to move over Motormaster’s hand, but he was trapped, held still as his energy field pulsed in teasing vibrations, catching at his internal nodes and making him shudder and leak. 

He thought Motormaster would stop as soon as he was wet enough and relaxed enough for something far wider, but he didn’t. Minutes passed, his accelerated charge enhancing the pleasure provoked by every little movement, the sparks of excitement building, combining.

He came quietly, tense and shuddering, but Motormaster didn’t stop, and there was a dizzy moment where Dead End wasn’t sure he could take any more. Then the charge grew again, bond-driven and tantalising, and he sighed, taking his optics offline to focus on the movements inside of him. 

“You never used to be so easily stimulated,” Motormaster said, his grip easing a little, allowing Dead End a little movement. He used his freedom to grind down, pushing the finger as deep as it would go. 

“I… needed time?” Dead End said, and allowed his energy field to flare, scattering sparks over Motormaster’s chest. 

“Or instruction?” Motormaster suggested. He thumbed the edge of Dead End’s conventional interface hatch, and it sprung open, his primary cable spilling into Motormaster’s hand. Dead End opened his mouth to object, but the pleasure in his valve was distracting, and what could he say? Something dark and horribly familiar rose to swamp him, and it was a moment before he recognised the apprehension of impending doom and realised that he hadn’t felt it so heavily in weeks. 

Motormaster connected them, and Dead End’s vents wheezed in panic. He froze, trying to work out how to compartmentalise his thoughts, how to stop the fragments of memory from working their way through. 

In desperation he threw himself forward onto Motormaster’s spike housing. He mouthed the hot metal, trying to recall everything Vortex had ever done for him that had been so new and shocking and wonderful. Surprise registered in the interface, and Dead End tongued the seal at the edge of the cover. With a soft grunt, Motormaster revealed his equipment. He was curious, excited. Pleased that Dead End had finally come to want him as the training manual had told him combiners should want each other, stunned at the extent of his desire. 

Dead End offlined his optics and began to tease Motormaster to full pressure. He copied everything he remembered Vortex doing, the little licks and gentle nibbling, the occasional suckling of the tip that always brought him closer to overload. It didn’t take long. 

Motormaster rumbled in pleasure, his engine spreading a deep vibration through them both. Dead End tried to work out what he was seeing through the connection, but it was impossible. He focused on the spike and the memories of interfacing, trying to banish all thought of the bond. 

“Enough,” Motormaster said through a haze of static. “I want you now.”

Dead End’s valve clenched at the thought, and Motormaster grinned wide. Kneeling up, Dead End shuffled forwards, steadying himself against his commander’s chest as he leaned up over the smooth, wet tip of the cord. He wasn’t used to this angle, nor to taking the initiative, and it took a few false starts before he found exactly the right angle. His inexperience didn’t seem to annoy Motormaster, indeed it had the opposite reaction, and Dead End wondered exactly how envious of Vortex he had been. 

Vents shuddering and with his frame as steady as he could make it, Dead End lowered himself onto the cord. It was different from being on his back, so much so that his vents stalled a moment and his valve fluttered, struggling to adjust. A pulse of frustration, and Motormaster’s huge hands fixed around his hips and aft, pulling him down. Dead End slumped, cheek pressed to hot metal, the thrum of Motormaster’s spark so much louder there. 

He murmured encouragement, wanting Motormaster to move him, control him. He wanted to be taken, rendered strutless as though he was nothing in his commander’s grip. He packaged the sentiment, sent it spinning through the connection. A snarl in response, a surge of arousal. The spike pulsed inside him, transforming very slightly to gently ridge the surface. With the size it felt like spines, and Dead End wailed in pleasured wonder as Motormaster moved him faster, pulling him almost off the spike entirely then slamming him down so it was in him to the hilt. 

It was too much, he was sure it was too much, but he didn’t want it to stop. He saw Fragment through the spark bond, watching him and trying to look like she wasn’t. He grit his denta and revved his engine, and thrust himself into the feeling of being filled, the drag of the shallow ridges on his high-strung nodes. 

He wondered if it could break him, permanently, irrevocably. He could die in ecstasy, just like the mecha in so many of Vortex’s memory films, oblivious until the end. He couldn’t help but think of Slingshot, furious, helpless in the face of impending death, carrying Dead End along part of the way. He cried out, his cord discharging and his valve so full it could hardly contract. He cleaved to Motormaster’s chest, panting and buzzing, and watched with wonder through the interface as Motormaster’s climax built and reached its peak.

But the charge fell away at the last moment, and Motormaster brought them to a stop. He tugged Dead End back a little, bringing his face into view. “What’s that?” he said, tapping Dead End’s chest as he moved through the interface, identifying the dark and alien presence of the signal dampener attached to Dead End’s spark. “Open. Now.”

Refusal was unthinkable, and Dead End squirmed as his chest parted. The sparkbond must have interpreted it as erotic; a surge in charge warred with the queasy dread, both enhanced by the unnerving intimacy of being questioned while impaled on Motormaster’s cord. 

Motormaster frowned. Supporting Dead End’s back - and making no move at all to withdraw from him - he made enough space for his arm between them and tentatively prodded the odd black box. “Is that meant to be there?” he said. “It’s not on your schematics. What is it?”

Dead End’s throat and valve constricted at once, and he went limp. “It’s a signal dampener,” he said. 

“A what? Why?” Motormaster’s expression darkened. “Is this the reason you’re so distant?” 

Dead End nodded, his head spinning. 

“Take it out.”

“No!” Dead End wriggled on the spike, pushing on Motormaster’s arm. “You can’t! It’s the thing you wanted! The thing to stop me sharing things!”

Motormaster poked the box, sending a ripple through Dead End’s spark. “It’s cutting you off from us.”

“Only when I… do this!” Dead End blurted. “Breakdown hates me enough as it is, do you want him to hate us both?”

Motormaster sighed, and to Dead End’s surprise his expression softened. “Breakdown doesn’t hate you,” he said. He gave a gentle flare of his energy field, making Dead End’s entire frame tingle.

“But he hates this!” Dead End said. “I only wear it when I… do things like this. I’ll take it off soon, I promise.”

Motormaster did something that felt suspiciously like he was stroking the casing of Dead End’s spark, then he withdrew his hand. “It won’t damage you?” he said, pushing the chest armour together. 

Dead End shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s just, I need it when we…” He rocked forward on the cord, the two halves of his chest sealing. “I can’t keep all this out of the bond by myself, it’s too much.”

This provoked a smile and a growing rumble of Motormaster’s powerful engine. “Too much?” he said. 

“Overwhelming,” Dead End added, pushing up slowly until he could flutter the rim of his valve over the tip of the cord. He sank down again with a moan. 

“You didn’t ask me first,” Motormaster said, but the rebuke was softened by the fresh pulse of contentment and arousal. 

“I took the initiative,” Dead End said, increasing his pace. “I thought it would please you. And Breakdown.” His voice filled again with static. “But mostly you.”

Motormaster pulled him close, rolling his hips and prompting new bursts of pleasure, his ridges catching on every sensor. “Next time,” he said, as Dead End felt his insides dissolve and his frame heat, “ask me first.”

* * *

The following day began with Morale. 

“What are you?” Motormaster growled as Breakdown stared up at him from the center of the training room floor. 

Fists clenched, Breakdown shivered. “I’m an elite Decepticon warrior!”

“I can’t hear you,” Motormaster sneered. 

“I’m an elite Decepticon warrior!”

“ _Louder!_ ”

On the sidelines, Dead End reined in his energy field and suppressed a yawn. Beside him Drag Strip and Wildrider were playing ‘How often and how hard can we kick each other in the leg before Motormaster notices?’ Dead End stared at the motivational posters on the training room’s scratched and dented walls, hardly noticing as Breakdown screamed at Motormaster and was finally allowed to charge his holographic target. 

His turn came next - after Motormaster sent Wildrider to sit on the opposite side of the room. Dead End’s shouting was deemed acceptable on the fourth attempt, and his hard-light adversary gave in after a suitable amount of punching. He retired to the bench, watching his chronometer, counting down the seconds until he could send Vortex another of his hourly pings. 

Seated at the other end of the bench, Breakdown glanced at him. He swung his foot, glanced again, and sidled closer. 

“Good morning,” Dead End said quietly. 

“Motormaster says we have to make up,” Breakdown said. 

“Does he.”

Breakdown hung his head, his voice only just audible under Wildrider’s cheerful yelling. “I don’t like it when we fight.”

“We weren’t fighting.”

“You know what I mean!” Breakdown snapped. “You’re such an aft.”

“So are you,” Dead End said mildly. “But I do see your point.”

“I saw you,” Breakdown whispered. “In the bond… with Motormaster.”

Dead End stared. “What… what do you mean?”

Breakdown rolled his optics. “I know what you two did,” he said. “And it’s OK. I mean, it’s not OK you’re so distant, but it’s OK that you and him… you know. I… I’m glad you are. It’s good. For the team.”

“You saw me in the bond?” Dead End said carefully. 

“Of course I did, you coghead. Through _him_.” Breakdown jerked a thumb at Motormaster, who was watching Wildrider’s attempt to decapitate his hologram with a look of weary disappointment. “Didn’t see through you,” Breakdown continued. “You know I can’t. It’s that… inhabitor thing.”

“Motormaster told you.”

Breakdown fidgeted. “Yes?”

“It’s an _inhibitor_ ,” Dead End said. “I thought it might make things better for you.” 

Breakdown swung his feet. “For me?” 

“Breakdown!” Motormaster called, his optics locked on Wildrider. “You’re up!”

Springing to his feet, Breakdown took a few steps, then turned back to Dead End. “Really for me?” he said.

Dead End nodded.

* * *

By the end of his shift, Dead End’s vocal processors were sore and his aim had improved by 0.02%. He showered in the communal rack, Breakdown choosing the stall beside him, and sat in the rec room to complete his wax and polish. Breakdown followed him there too, fetching them both a mug of coolant before positioning a chair in the corner between Dead End and the door. He hunched over his drink, his optics on Dead End. 

For a long while the silence was broken only by the sigh of the chamois and the occasional squeak of the polish. Dead End’s hourly ping to Vortex received the usual automated response, and a hubbub in the hallway turned out to be Wildrider loudly leaving and thankfully not Wildrider loudly approaching the rec room to invade their peace and quiet. Drag Strip _did_ invade, but declared them joint winners of the Most Boring Cybertronian competition, and sped off, presumably to chase Wildrider. 

A tentative smile tugged at Breakdown’s lips. “Amazing,” he said. “Something he doesn’t want to win.”

“I bet he would if someone else suggested it,” Dead End responded. 

Breakdown laughed. He tucked his legs up on the seat. “Did you really mean it?” he said. “Earlier, about it being for me?”

“Who else could it be for?” Dead End said. He rotated his arm, checking his paintwork for scratches. “None of the others care.”

“For Vortex?” Breakdown suggested, and cringed. 

Dead End continued to stare at his finish. “It makes no difference to him,” he said. “He’s not team.”

“But… he might like it?” Breakdown said. “If you’re not with us all the time.”

Dead End risked meeting Breakdown’s gaze. “Well yes,” he said. “If I was with you all the time, I couldn’t be with him at all.”

“You know what I mean!” Breakdown threw his head back. “He’s scary. He destroys people.”

“There’s more to him than his work,” Dead End said. 

“I don’t just mean his job!” Breakdown glanced at the door, then around the room. 

Dead End propped his foot on the table and began to wax his knee. “Then what do you mean?”

“I mean he _destroys people!_ ,” Breakdown hissed. “You know why the Terrorcons were sent off planet? You know what he did to Cutthroat?”

“I don’t, no.”

“And neither does anyone else! But no-one’s seen him since Sixshot chose the Terrorcons over Onslaught.”

“That’s just a rumour,” Dead End said. “I credit you with more intelligence than to believe baseless slander.”

“Baseless?” Breakdown’s jaw dropped. “You think I’m being paranoid?”

“I think it’s scurrilous gossip,” Dead End said. “Onslaught and Sixshot? Primus below.”

“It’s a political thing!” Breakdown said. “They’re old world, they do things different. And even if Vortex didn’t break the Terrorcons, he did kill Aeroglide!”

“Am I meant to know who Aeroglide is?”

“He was Octane’s friend,” Breakdown said. “A neutral. You wanna ask him about that.”

“Neutrals and Terrorcons.” Dead End gave the cloth a final flourish, and turned to face Breakdown. “They’re not like us, the neutrals, the beastmodes. Vortex would never hurt us.”

“He took you away!” Breakdown snapped. “Is he going to do it again? If he wasn’t doing all that interrogation scrap, would you even be here right now?”

“I… I might…” Dead End slumped. “I’m sorry, I’ve been neglectful.” He raised a hand, letting it hover over Breakdown’s shoulder, bringing their energy fields together. “I didn’t mean to abandon you, it was just… I’ve never felt that way with anyone, I got carried away.” 

Breakdown leaned back. “I thought you were like me,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you didn’t like interfacing either, that you’d never like it. I don’t like being the only one.”

Dead End chanced a smile. “I hardly think you’re the only one.”

Breakdown shrugged, sighing loudly. “You find me someone else like me and I’ll believe you.” He stirred his coolant and sniffed it. “Does this smell OK to you?”

Smiling more widely, Dead End took the mug, sniffed and sipped. “It’s fine,” he said, handing it back. 

Breakdown swallowed half and cupped the mug over his knees. “I know you’ll go back to him.” His smile vanished and he looked down into the coolant. “Just make sure you come back to us too, yeah?”

“I will,” Dead End said. He sent Vortex another ping, and glanced briefly at the automated reply before filing it away. “Do you want to do something tonight?” he said to Breakdown. “Just the two of us.”

“Movie night,” Breakdown said. “I’ll get some snacks.”

* * *

The closing credits rolled, the screen spilling a kaleidoscope of colour over the two mecha sitting side by side on the bunk. Breakdown’s optics gleamed from a tunnel of fabric, a thermo-blanket Dead End had slung over him when the shadows began to dance. But the movie was full of rousing music and heroic last stands, and Breakdown had been rapt throughout. Dead End drained the dregs of his cup of warm energon and switched off its heating element before Breakdown could worry that it was about to set fire to the bed. 

Motormaster was back. They could hear his muffled movements through the walls.

“You should go to him,” Breakdown said, stifling a yawn. “When he’s had enough, we’ll swap.”

Dead End laughed. “That’s… very practical.”

“I thought so.” Breakdown leaned more heavily on Dead End’s shoulder, the cloth crinkling between them. “Did you think we were interfacing?”

“No,” Dead End said honestly. “I didn’t know what you were doing.”

“He’s not so bad,” Breakdown said. “He cares about us.”

“What _do_ you do?” Dead End asked. 

“This,” Breakdown answered. “Sitting, talking, being together. We just don’t inter- oh. Your comm’s flashing.” 

Dead End eased his arm out from under Breakdown, but Breakdown rolled off the bunk, taking the blanket with him. 

“It’s OK,” he said, backing towards the door. “It’s Vortex. I can go.”

“It’s not Vortex,” Dead End said, setting a hold message on the comm. 

“Who is it then? Is it Wildrider? Is he in trouble?”

“It’s… a friend. A neutral.” Dead End wanted to kick himself. “I’ll take it sub-voc, you can come back.”

Breakdown dithered, a small hump of fabric emitting a violet glow, then clambered back on the bunk. “Can I watch some TV while you talk?”

Dead End nodded, and handed Breakdown the remote. He took the call internally, putting his arm around the Breakdown-blanket huddle. “Is anything wrong?” he said. 

Fragment laughed, and it was as though her laughter was a cue for the sparkbond to bloom with warmth. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Just hadn’t heard from you for a while. Thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Never,” Dead End said, watching as Breakdown slowly surfed the channels. “Vortex is still busy.”

“You could come out by yourself?” Fragment suggested. “Or I could come over and see you.”

“I don’t think we’re allowed visitors on base,” Dead End said. 

“That’s a shame.” A suggestive sliver of sensation wound its way through the bond, and Dead End shuddered. 

Breakdown pressed closer, still channel hopping. 

“I keep getting pings from the software,” Fragment said. “I can meet you just outside the base.”

“It’s not safe, you can’t go driving around alone.”

That laugh came again, and with it a whole host of impulses and feelings Dead End was not prepared to deal with. “Trove can drive me,” Fragment said. “She’s massive, no-one’s gonna mess with her.” She paused. “That is, only if you want to.”

“I want to,” Dead End said without thinking. “But I should wait for Vortex.”

“How long’s he gonna be?” Fragment asked. 

“I don’t know. I…” Dead End rested his chin on Breakdown’s blanket-swathed head. 

“Is your spark more stable?” 

“What? Yes, yes, it’s fine.”

Fragment sent him a pulse of oddly non-erotic pleasure. “I’m glad,” she said. “You _are_ getting the signals, aren’t you? Telling us to interface?”

“A few,” Dead End said. 

“Oh good! I was beginning to think it was just me. So… you wanna meet up? Get those messages to stop bugging us for a while?”

“I do,” Dead End said, anticipation coiling in his spark. “I can’t right now, I’m with my team. But later?”

“What time shall I come over?”

“I’ll come to you,” Dead End said. “Give me an hour, I’ll have a better idea then.”

“What’s that, like maybe eight breems?” Fragment said. “I don’t really do that Earth time stuff.”

“Around that,” Dead End said. Fragment laughed again and hung up. Dead End vented deep. 

“Friend?” Breakdown said. 

“Just someone I met on patrol,” Dead End replied. “Megatron told us to ingratiate ourselves with the neutrals.”

Breakdown wriggled out from under Dead End’s arm. “He’s tired,” he said, nodding towards Motormaster’s room. “He’s almost in recharge already. Do you mind if…”

“He’s all yours,” Dead End said. 

Breakdown paused at the door. “We should do this again soon. Really soon.”

“We should,” Dead End agreed. “We will.”

* * *

Dead End pinged Vortex every five minutes from the moment Breakdown left the room to the instant his furtive glances into the team bond told him Motormaster was asleep. 

The sparkbond was open, yielding a tantalising view of Fragment running a cloth over the ornamental spines which flicked back from her ankles. They were nice ankles, and her legs were shapely. Not thick as Dead End usually liked them, but they held an appeal which wasn’t entirely born of novelty. 

Dead End thought about palming his cord and bringing himself to overload alone in his room. But his covers remained closed, and his core temperature only rose. 

As soon as Breakdown joined their leader in recharge, Dead End stole out of the Stunticon dorm, out of the barracks, and had hit the highway at speed before he even thought to leave a message letting Vortex know where he had gone. 

The night was calm, a slight breeze driving in from Petrohex. Dead End followed the route Vortex had led him down, the bond pulling him towards that filthy little shanty and the golden glow of Fragment in the heart of it. 

He’d tried to distance himself from the bond. He hadn’t thought about the messages, urging him to interface, reminding him he needed to augment their connection. Motormaster had helped with the impulses, giving him everything his needy frame required to reject the notifications out of hand. But it had been a while since Motormaster had last filled him, and the need grew more urgent with each passing mile. 

He took a wrong turn in the dark, spun his wheels in a fast U-turn and flipped for a moment into robot mode to reaccess the highway. His tires left streaks on the ancient metal, and he was off again, spark thrumming and his energy field flaring ragged. 

As he drove he composed messages to Vortex. _Gone to see Fragment, won’t be long_ , and _Gone to visit our friend, come find me_ , and a dozen others almost the same, but nothing sounded right and he scrapped them all. 

Vortex would catch him up. Vortex would know where he’d gone. 

He took the right exit this time, passing the blank and boarded windows, the crumbling grandeur of the Golden Age. The little shacks were still there, eyes watching him from the shadows. He powered up his weapons and drove on. 

It wasn’t until he got to the building that he realised he couldn’t get in. Vortex had the keyword, or the codes, or whatever it was he needed to unlock the door. Dead End scrubbed his optics. He was grimy and needy and filthy and he couldn’t remember. 

A message flashed in his HUD, a proximity warning, and for a horrifying second he expected Motormaster to loom from the dark at the end of the alley. But the door clicked and opened and Fragment stood there with her crooked smile and her scar and her warm, welcoming spark. 

“Scrap, you look even better than I remembered,” Fragment said. She glanced past him into the gloom. “It’s just you?”

Dead End nodded, keeping his weapons online in case that wasn’t actually true. It was only as she led him upstairs that he realised he hadn’t even thought to be wary of her. 

“I got us some high grade,” she said, pushing the door shut behind Dead End. “Would you like some?”

“Maybe later,” Dead End said. He rested his hand just above her forearm, a tingling radiating through his sensor net from the merest brush of their energy fields. “The proximity warnings, are they always like this?” 

Fragment grinned. “Only when you haven’t been intimate for a while,” she said. “May I?” She stroked his mask, and their energy fields did more than brush, they tangled and tugged and spread lines of sparking fire straight to his interface hardware. He drew back his mask, and Fragment kissed him. It began slow and chaste, each light brush of their lips causing their sparks to flare, then deepened and lengthened, until Dead End felt as though he was melting from the inside. 

“Primus, I’d forgotten how this feels,” Fragment breathed, her fans already tripped and her thin civilian armour scorching. Dead End smoothed his hands over her waist and hips. She was so clean and fresh and oddly beautiful. He wasn’t exactly clean, specks of grime dappling his finish, but she didn’t seem to care. “How do you want to do this?”

“However you want,” Dead End said and meant it. 

A wicked gleam in her eye, Fragment laid him down on the awkwardly transformed sofa-bed, and straddled his hips. She bent to kiss him, one hand fondling between his legs until his cover released and his cord extended. 

“Hot scrap, you’re well made,” she said, glancing down. “Didn’t think they did biolights like that any more.”

Dead End nodded, the tug and squeeze of her hand making coherent thought rather difficult. “Hook built me,” he managed. “He’s a true perfectionist.”

“You don’t say.” Fragment bit her lip, her optics narrowing as her covers released. Her own cord extended fast, a simple bronze-coloured model with ridges that made Dead End want it inside him right there and then. But Fragment had other ideas, so warm and ready as she lowered herself onto Dead End’s spike. She gasped in pleased surprise as Dead End held her hips as Motormaster had so recently held his, and began to move inside her. 

They didn’t last long, but it hardly mattered when the charge abated for the briefest of moments only to return full force at the next caress. Fragment shuffled down, getting between his legs, and thrust home in one smooth motion that made Dead End cry out in ecstasy. Her ridges felt wonderful, the angle of her entry a thrill. She took him fast, pounding into him as the bond urged them on, drawing out the charge and chasing their shared overload. 

With each climax their sparks seemed to align, a momentary synchronisation that left Dead End breathless and made Fragment laugh with joy. They lay panting, temporarily sated, and drank the coolant Fragment had procured from goodness knew where. Dead End didn’t want to ask, and he wanted even less to refuse when Fragment suggested they connect. 

It wasn’t the best of ideas, he knew it, but the sparkbond wanted it. The sparkbond demanded it, and Dead End was connected with every cable that would fit before he’d fully thought it through. Fragment sent a suggestion through the interface, and he lifted her, pressing her to the wall as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She was slick with their mingled fluids, warmer than he could ever have expected. It was like dipping himself into heated oil, but with a rippling compression that made stillness impossible. Fragment clung to his shoulders, murmuring encouragement as he rocked into her. 

What she saw in his spark he couldn’t tell, and he saw so little in hers. He hoped she saw the same, that the knowledge she gained was of the moment, a hot bundle of needs and wants, a spectrum of desires met and exceeded. 

“I don’t want your military secrets,” Fragment whispered, her valve clenching around him. “I don’t want any secrets!”

“How are you so perfect?” Dead End sighed in wonder, as his cord discharged and Fragment came hard around him. 

“I work at it,” Fragment said with a tired grin, kissing Dead End on the lips. “You feel thirsty. Drink?”

One drink became two, and then three, and Dead End found himself smiling at the slightest thing, Fragment’s amusement infectious. Refuelled, the proximity notifications returned, urging them together again. Dead End saw no reason to argue, but this time they went slowly, the urgency faded and the charge slower to build. 

Afterwards Dead End sprawled to help his engine cool, Fragment dozing on his arm. His thoughts turned to Motormaster. Soldiers weren’t meant to bond, not like this. Team bonds and bonds of fealty were encouraged, gestalts and trines and symbionts were all lauded as proper for a Decepticon warrior, but sparkbonds were for civilians. It didn’t matter that Megatron had one, he’d been bonded to Soundwave since before the war, and Soundwave was beyond reproach. 

Maybe Fragment could join the Decepticons, Dead End thought. She could make morale officer, or a communications specialist or something. He nudged her. “What was your primary purpose?” he asked, his voice muzzy with sleep. 

“Whu?” She yawned, rolling over and tugging on his arm until he wrapped it around her. 

“Your primary purpose,” he repeated. “What is it?”

“I’mma fraggin’ specialist,” she said and snickered to herself. 

“I mean, what are your qualifications?” Dead End said. 

She shot him a dose of her sleepiness through the bond, flapped a hand at him, and did not answer. 

He poked the bond, trying to work out how to access her databanks and learn for himself, but he had no idea how to get there. Vortex would know, but Vortex was miles away on the base, busy cracking Autobots for Soundwave. 

She couldn’t object to joining up. Not after Torque, murdered by an Autobot sniper. And Motormaster would like her, he’d have to. 

“Wake up.” A hand on his shoulder, a new plug in his interface array. He must have fallen asleep, but his chronometer showed only a few breems had passed. He booted his optics. 

“Vortex?” He grinned. “Vortex!” He gave Fragment a shove. “Wake up, Vortex is here!”

“She’s sleeping,” Vortex said. He stroked Dead End’s cheek. “Couldn’t wait for me, huh?”

Dead End sat up in a tangle of cables. He winced; everything ached, from his neck to the length of his cord. He shook Fragment, sending a query through the sparkbond. Then he noticed the new cable in her array and sank back onto the berth. “I’m filthy,” he said. “I ought to shower before we wake her up. Does this place even have a shower?”

Vortex shrugged. “You want to wake her up?” he said. 

“We need to. I… I’ve changed my mind, we have to keep her. Look at her!” He waved his hand in her direction. 

“We can’t keep her,” Vortex said softly. 

“But we can! She can join the Decepticons, take the brand. I’ve seen neutrals join up before.”

Vortex leaned down to kiss Dead End lightly on the corner of his mouth. “That’s the bond talking,” he said. 

Dead End shook his head. “It’s not! This is me, really. We need to keep her, we can’t kill her, not _her_. She completes me.”

“No she doesn’t,” Vortex whispered, smoothing a hand down Dead End’s chassis to his interface array. 

Despite his many aches, Dead End arched into the touch. “She does.” He hissed as Vortex flared his energy field across the raw connectors, and parted his thighs at the progress of Vortex’s fingers. “Wake her up,” he said. “I need her, I need you.”

But Vortex only teased, gently slicking the rim of Dead End’s valve, skirting around his anterior node. “You need me,” he said. “The bond is using you, it’s what happens when you let it mature.” He finally brushed across the node, making Dead End buck. “I should never have left you alone for so long.”

Dead End groaned, fists balled and port clenching on nothing. He was leaking again, full of Fragment’s fluids, so filthy and wet, and scrap it felt good as Vortex manipulated his nub. He bit his knuckle, trying not to scream. 

“But I’m here for you now,” Vortex said kindly. “I can help you. You’re so beautiful.”

Dead End grunted as he came, the pleasure from his node shooting through his frame, through the interface. Vortex hummed happily, but Fragment failed to stir. 

“But we _can_ keep her,” Dead End managed, glancing at her rounded bronze shoulder, the little curve of her vent cover. “Can’t we?”

Vortex shook his head. “We’re still at war,” he said. “An unofficial bond is kinda treasonous.”

“Treason? But I’m loyal! She doesn’t know anything.”

“It’s all right.” Vortex stroked the length of his chassis, and Dead End cleaved to him. “It’s going to be fine, I’ll take care of everything. Remember why we’re here, the gift I promised you.”

Dead End shuddered. “Not her, please. We can’t kill her!”

“We have to,” Vortex said. 

Dead End covered his face with his hands, then threw himself onto his side, looking at Fragment, so vulnerable and perfect. “But she’s not an Autobot,” he said. “She’s a person. We can’t do this to a person.”

“It’s OK,” Vortex murmured, flicking his energy field across Dead End’s back. “It’s all going to be fine.”

Dead End covered his face again. “It’s not.”

“You chose this,” Vortex said softly, pulling Dead End into his lap, shuffling closer to Fragment. “You’ll feel differently when the bond is gone. You should have waited for me.”

“I know!” Dead End wailed. He squirmed around and clung to Vortex, shivering. The bond was still and calm, a glossy plane of systems readouts with the flicker of subconscious data flow an illegible stream beneath. “Don’t wake her up,” he said, and squirmed as his internal nodes continued to tingle. “Don’t hurt her.”

“This is the kindest way,” Vortex said, as Dead End tensed against the growing charge. “Do you want to watch?”

“No!” Dead End pressed his face to Vortex’s shoulder, then turned away, to Fragment. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Just do it!”

“Turn around,” Vortex said, guiding him until his back was pressed to Vortex’s chest, his legs awkwardly parted. Vortex held him around the middle, and he groaned, mortified at the way he tilted his hips. “Kneel down, that’s it. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.”

Dead End gulped for air; he was boiling, shaking. He needed to be filled, and he realised with a sick lurch that the impulse did not come from Vortex. He let himself be manoeuvred, until he was kneeling over Fragment, Vortex covering him, holding him up. Her chest opened, but her face was slack, her optics dull. Dead End whimpered, grinding back, his vision blurring. “Get it over with!” he wailed, and Vortex shushed him, pouring into him a liquid heat of need and longing and sharp desire. 

It was a relief to be entered, his aching valve forced open, his nodes screaming. He felt overclocked, overworked, every sensor bright to the point of pain. The spike moved slowly, and his valve fluttered around it, urging it deeper, faster, while the connection burned with the promise of death, and Dead End’s optics flickered, seeing nothing but the gold of Fragment’s spark. 

“Now!” Dead End cried, but the pace remained the same, slow and tortuous, and Fragment was still alive and the bond was still in him. “Please!” He cupped Fragment’s face in his hand. 

Vortex pulsed into him, reassurance and pleasure and heat. He held Dead End still on his cord, full to the hilt. The ridges quivered, catching the internal nodes, gathering charge. Dead End watched Vortex feel his way around the spark chamber, felt the spark swell as though it was his own. He blurred his optics as Vortex produced a tiny set of wire snips. The blades settled around a bundle of wires and Dead End held onto the arm around his waist, his own spark pulsing and seething, his own innards churning as the blades came together. 

Vortex worked quickly, silently. Dead End took his optics offline, immersed himself in the stages of systems shutdown and tried to pretend that it was his own spark being isolated, his own life slipping away. 

The bleak nothing opened beneath him, and he forced his optics to boot, to see that golden light flicker and crack. He reached for it, through the bond, through the connection, with his fingers dipped deep into the core, his paint bubbling and burning. He chased the vanishing light, chasing the dark to meet the spectre of onrushing death. 

When it came he thought he was dying. A cold like knives pierced his core and split him open. It tore him apart, made him scream in agony and loss. He saw his own spark fracture and bleed, his own life draining. Vortex moved again inside him, building quickly to a pace as brutal as the sharp and clinging dark. Dead End came violently, shaking and whimpering as the last shreds of Fragment’s life faded from his systems. The bond collapsed, and he fell limp in Vortex’s arms, his face hitting Fragment’s greying shoulder, his valve spasming in a rhythmic series of aftershocks as Vortex slammed into him a final time, holding him still as he came. 

When Vortex withdrew, Dead End remained limp. His spark was in tatters, his vision crackling. Vortex kissed him and laid him carefully down, and began to gently clean him. 

Dead End stared at the grey husk of a person on the bed next to him and wanted to throw up. “I asked to keep her,” he said, and his voice was a dry rustle of static. He looked up at Vortex, silver motes swimming through his visual field. “What was I thinking?” 

Vortex shrugged. “You weren’t, it was the bond.” He scooped Dead End off the sofa-bed and sat him on a pile of boxes. “Close your covers.”

Dead End complied, wincing at the sting. His spark fluttered, grasping after something no longer there. “It’s not like before,” he said. 

Crouching in front of him, Vortex tipped some solvent onto the cloth and began to clean the newly closed panels. “Sure it isn’t,” he said. “Did you guys talk?”

“A… a few times.”

“And you screwed like petrobunnies.”

Dead End shuttered his optics and vented deep. “It was stronger. I… I think I liked her.”

“She was a likeable person,” Vortex said. “I wouldn’t have gifted you some cogheaded pothole now, would I?”

“I…” Dead End shivered. “I don’t feel so well.”

“No surprise there.” Vortex stood and ducked down behind the boxes. He came back with a handful of cannisters. “Fuel up, and some coolant too, but leave some space. I’ve got some nanite enriched stuff back at mine, you’ll need that. I’ll take care of your hand too.”

Nodding, Dead End shivered again. Vortex sat beside him, looping an arm around his shoulders. 

“You’re on duty at eight,” he said. “You gonna make it?”

Dead End startled. “Eight? That’s… forty minutes. I… we need to go, we…” His eyes lit on Fragment. “What are we going to do… with, um, her?”

Vortex gently pulsed his energy field, a wash of comfort and reassurance. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he said. “OK, can you stand? I’ll fly you back to base, it’ll be quicker.”

Shaking, Dead End got to his feet. He leaned on Vortex, his legs like rubber, his linkages lax. He stumbled to the door, sparksore and nauseated, glancing back every other step. “No more civilians,” he said. “I… I can’t do this again. She didn’t deserve this.”

Vortex kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Whatever you say.”


	10. Chapter 10

Going on duty was the last thing Dead End wanted to do, but it wasn’t as though he had a choice. Vortex flew him back to the base in root mode, an ungainly waste of fuel but Dead End was grateful. It was smoother than driving, and faster, and the nausea only got the better of him once, and that was after they landed. 

His body had the grace to wait until they were in the washracks before violently ejecting the rest of the energon he’d drank back at the shanty. He retched, bent double under the spray while Vortex rubbed the back of his neck and murmured nonsense that was probably meant to be soothing. Dead End didn’t care. His fuel reservoir was empty, his head ached. He let himself be scrubbed, limp in Vortex’s arms, while his spark recycled Fragment’s death in a regular cycle that felt like he was being ripped apart slowly from the inside. 

Vortex dried him and fuelled him, and fed him nanites that made him need to lie down for a moment until his processors stopped spinning. Then he picked him up and made him stand, and they were halfway across the base before Dead End could walk without support. 

“You’re late,” Motormaster snarled as Dead End strode with as much dignity as he could muster into the briefing room, Vortex half a step behind him. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“We ran into some trouble,” Vortex said. “Autobot patrol, didn’t see who it was. I’m about to make a full report, but I thought I’d let you know first.”

Dead End leaned his elbows on his knees and focused on his ventilation. To his left Wildrider and Drag Stip whispered to each other, Wildrider snickering. Breakdown’s engine revved. 

“An Autobot patrol?” Motormaster said. “Indeed. Dead End, report.”

Dead End shook his head. “We were out by the Rhodion highway,” he said. “I…” He gulped, suddenly dizzy. “They shot me.”

“Then why aren’t you in medbay?” Motormaster snarled. 

“It was only a sonic blaster,” Vortex cut in. “Wasn’t even a direct hit, he just got caught in the wash.” He shrugged. “But I can take him, if you think he needs to see Hook.”

Motormaster sighed, and Dead End could feel him prodding through the team bond, his presence muted as though he was trying to reach through a thick sheet of foam. “If you’re trying to imply a weakness in my team,” he began.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Vortex said cheerfully. “Just trying to help. It’s my fault he was out there.”

“Your… fault?” Motormaster gave Drag Strip a pointed glare in response to something that must have passed through the bond. “Dead End, Vortex, stay. The rest of you, you’ve just won ten minutes of free time. Get moving!”

Dead End vented deep, his temperature rising despite the chill in his core. He looked up as Breakdown passed, their energy fields meshing briefly. “I’m fine,” he said, but Breakdown didn’t linger to respond. 

“Sit,” Motormaster said to Vortex, and Dead End had to resist leaning closer as Vortex sat beside him. “What really happened. Dead End, you first.”

“Sonic blaster,” Dead End said. “We were out for a drive… flight, whatever. I…” He rebooted his optics to dispel the crackling. “There were Autobots, maybe two? I don’t know. They fired, we fired back. They fled. I don’t remember any more, I was too busy throwing up.”

Motormaster lifted Dead End’s chin and looked into his optics. “You’re still wearing the dampner,” he said. 

“We... didn’t have time to take it out.”

Motormaster sniffed. “You had time to take a shower.”

Dead End frowned. “I was covered in semi-processed energon,” he said with all the indignance he could muster. “You truly expect me to present myself in public covered in… regurgitate!”

“It _was_ pretty gross,” Vortex added. 

Motormaster glared at him. “You’ve registered the enemy activity with Control?”

“Soundwave knows,” Vortex said. “I called it in.”

“But not to me.”

“You weren’t on duty when it happened,” Vortex said. “I followed protocol, _and_ I brought Dead End safely back to you. And he’s only three breems late.”

Motormaster’s energy field was oddly devoid of anger as he pressed his palm to Dead End’s chest. He waited a moment then withdrew. “What were you doing off base?”

“Drive,” Dead End replied. “Having some… time together.”

“I can draw you a diagram,” Vortex offered, and Motormaster’s engine gave a warning rumble. 

“You put him in danger,” he said, pointing at Vortex as though his finger could transform into a gun. “You could have got him killed.”

“And I got him safely back,” Vortex said. He leaned forward, close enough that their energy fields must have come into contact because Motormaster scowled and remained very still. “I like him, remember? I’m not gonna let anything happen to him.”

Motormaster met his gaze and held it, and for a long moment Dead End was certain he was about to raise his fist. But he didn’t. “The three of us need to have a long talk about the parameters of your relationship,” he said. “But now is not the time. You will report to me at the end of your next duty shift. Dismissed.”

“Sure thing.” Vortex stood and clapped Dead End on the shoulder. “The nanites’ll kick in soon,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

“ _Dismissed_ ,” Motormaster growled, and Dead End turned his aching head to watch Vortex leave. As soon as he was gone Motormaster sat beside Dead End. “What were you _thinking?_ ”

Dead End spread his hands. “We don’t usually get snipers that close to base. I didn’t think there was a risk.”

“There it is,” Motormaster said. “You _didn’t_ think. Elita is still at large, Moonracer was sighted in Polyhex only three days ago. Do not think that because we have won so many battles, that the war is over.”

“I don’t. I just...” 

“You are infatuated,” Motormaster said. “I understand that, but it’s no reason to abandon care.” He patted Dead End awkwardly on the back. “Breakdown tells me you’ve made a contact among the neutrals.”

Dead End shivered, the knives turning in his spark. “Yes,” he croaked. 

“Neutrals are not to be trusted. The Autobots have many spies.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dead End said. “I won’t be going out there again. Not off duty.”

Motormaster stood. “ _Do_ I need to send you to medbay?”

Dead End shook his head. “No… no, I’ll be fine. I’m just queasy, that’s all.”

“We’ll be running emergency drills today,” Motormaster said. “Mind you keep up.”

Dead End nodded through the pain in his spark. “I will.”

* * *

“I don’t have the time,” Swindle said, as Vortex let himself into the Combaticon rec room. 

“Not even for a modest profit,” Vortex countered. He peered over his team mate’s shoulder. The hardlight screen showed neat columns of figures, changing with the flicker of Swindle’s optics. They slowed. 

“How modest?”

“Salvage,” Vortex said. “One groundframe, Gamma Caste, Ninth Vorn Golden Age. Good hardware.”

The numbers sped up again. “T-cog?” Swindle asked, keeping his eyes on the screen. 

“In place. Don’t know if it works. Everything’s intact.”

“That’s not like you,” Swindle commented. “Any rust?”

“None.”

“All right, I’ll take it. Where did you leave it?”

Vortex sent him the coordinates, along with the code to get into the building. “What are you doing?”

“Next quarter’s projections,” Swindle said. “Is there a reason you’re still here?”

“Nope,” Vortex said, leaning on the back of Swindle’s chair. “I just like watching you work.”

Swindle gave a weary sigh, but Vortex could feel his smirk through his energy field. 

* * *

Dead End dragged himself through his shift, back straight and chin up. Every so often a minor brownout hit, causing a small part of him to glitch. It never lasted long, and he could detect no pattern, but it was difficult to hide the random momentary tapping of his foot, the few seconds his audials cut out just when Motormaster was asking him a question. 

He focused on the work, studying patrol maps and emergency protocols until the stars began to fade from his vision and the knives in his spark dulled to the occasional sharp stab. Shards of memory spun up from his core, from the bleak and ragged hole where the bond used to be. He watched her smile again and again, felt her around and in him, went with her as she guttered and died. 

“Are you all right?” Breakdown said quietly, rolling his chair closer to Dead End. “Motormaster ordered a break. Didn’t you hear him?”

“Huh?” Dead End looked up. Wildrider had gone, Drag Strip was leaving. “What?”

“We’ve got twenty minutes,” Breakdown said. At the other end of the line of screens, Motormaster scrolled through his messages, clearly watching them from the corner of his eye. 

“Oh.” Dead End rebooted his optics. He wanted to reboot his whole body, but recharge was a long way off. 

“I know what you’ve been doing,” Breakdown said. “And it’s OK, really.”

A flash of panic collided with the memory of Fragment’s laughter. “OK? What… uh…” Dead End gripped the edge of the desk. 

“Brawl told me,” Breakdown said. “I mean, Brawl told Wildrider and I was there, so I couldn’t help hearing everything.”

“Brawl… knows?” The stars returned, until Breakdown was a shadow under a crackling haze. 

“Um.. _Are_ you OK?” Breakdown said. “Motormaster!”

“No no! I’m fine!” Dead End made an effort to straighten. “I… didn’t think Brawl knew.”

“Course he knows,” Breakdown said quietly, and he sounded like he was grimacing. “He helped Vortex make some of those films, back in the Golden Age. I… kinda think it’s really gross, but I’m not gonna judge you for it?”

“You sound certain,” Dead End said as the relief shuddered through him. 

“I’ll try not to,” Breakdown whispered. “I… I mean judge. But seriously, vids of people dying? That’s really morbid even for you.”

“I think I need some oil,” Dead End said. “Would you excuse me?” He pushed up from the chair, grabbing the desk a moment to steady himself. 

He made it halfway to the door before doubling over. 

“You’re not OK,” Breakdown said. “I knew it! What really happened? What did Vortex do to you?”

Dead End slumped, and found himself leaning on Breakdown’s arm, being steered back to the room. “He saved me,” he said. 

Motormaster was waiting for them. “Sit,” he ordered. “Stay.” He closed the door, and returned to loom over them. “How do you know it was just a sonic blaster?” he demanded. 

“Vortex said.” Dead End swayed as he raised his head to look up. “I’m fine, just a little dry, that’s all. I just need some oil.”

“Breakdown, go fetch the oil. Tell Wildrider and Drag Strip they’re to go to the firing range and start without us.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dead End asserted. Breakdown gave him a worried look, and sped off. Motormaster sat down. 

“You don’t look fine,” Motormaster said. “Your energy field isn’t normal, your vital stats are all over the place.”

“The dampener-” Dead End began.

“The dampener has nothing to do with this,” Motormaster said. “Your vital signs are still available to me, and they are not within the range I would label acceptable.” He lay a hand on Dead End’s arm; his fingers were scorching. “You’re cold,” he said. “You’re never this cold. What if it wasn’t a sonic blaster, but some experimental weapon the Autobots have developed?”

Dead End frowned. “But they’re in hiding. Do they have the resources?”

“They held Vector Sigma for a full year before we took it back,” Motormaster said. “Who knows what they could have learned or gained?” He shifted, the tact of his engine subtly changing. “They still have the Matrix of Leadership.”

Dead End gaped. “But Magnus, he was captured. He was… he was Prime’s successor, wasn’t he?”

“Apparently not.” Motormaster sniffed. “This is not yet common knowledge. I’m surprised Vortex hasn’t told you, he was involved in interrogating the prisoners was he not?”

“We don’t talk about work,” Dead End said. “I thought you might credit both of us with a degree more professionalism than that.”

Motormaster smiled. “Perhaps you are feeling better,” he said. 

“I am,” Dead End confirmed. “You can call off Hook, I’ll be fine.” But Motormaster shook his head. 

“You’re seeing Hook,” he said, and paused a moment as footsteps rang in the hallway outside. “That should be him.”

It wasn’t. But Dead End had no reason to be relieved. The door opened to the wide smile of Scavenger, his bucket tail swinging over his head. “Hook’s busy,” he said, closing the door and grabbing a chair to position himself opposite Dead End. “So what’s the problem?”

As Motormaster explained, Dead End tried not to fidget. Scavenger wasn’t Hook, but he was thorough and imaginative, and he knew his way around a groundframe. This couldn’t be good. 

Scavenger frowned, and scuttled closer. He brought out a weird little device Dead End had seen the Constructicons using after battles. It whirred, performing some kind of scan. “Hold still,” Scavenger said. “Hmm…”

“Hmm?” Motormaster queried. 

Scavenger produced a cable. “Medical port please,” he said. “I need to take a few measurements.”

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Dead End protested, but Motormaster glared at him and he bowed his head. 

Scavenger leaned up, plugging into the back of his neck, and pinged for access. With a sinking feeling, Dead End granted it. 

The data flow was strange, clinical. Scavenger was gentle, questing not demanding, always pinging for permission before accessing a new area. He took fuel consumption, energy field output, spark function, oil use and coolant levels, backdated to just before the time of the supposed shooting. His frown deepened and his tail swayed. Eventually, he withdrew. 

He sat thoughtfully a moment, before turning to Motormaster. “Whatever that weapon was,” he said. “It wasn’t a sonic blaster.”

“Then what was it?” Motormaster said. 

Scavenger shrugged. “I don’t know. Something new maybe? Maybe something old I’ve not seen before. I need to take the stats to Scrapper, see what he thinks.” He gave Dead End a rather intense look. “You say it sounded like a sonic blaster? Felt like one?”

“It did,” Dead End answered. “Just like that.”

“Weird.” Scavenger sat a moment, optics roving and tail gently bobbing. After a while he sprung up. “OK, I think you’re fine, just a bit battered.” He looked up at Motormaster. “Monitor symptoms,” he said. “Keep him oiled and fuelled, lots of nanites, lots of coolant.”

“But he’s freezing!”

“Only on the outside,” Scavenger said. “Don’t take him anywhere snowy for a while.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Dead End stared at the floor, listening as Scavenger reeled off the instructions. He could shower, but not air dry, he should steer clear of anything with rust as a flavouring, and he could combine as soon as he could walk straight, but not before. 

“It’s probably just scrambled some circuits,” Scavenger said. “His self-repair will take care of it, just give him time.”

Once he’d gone, Motormaster seemed to slump. He sighed and shook his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

Dead End merely shrugged.

* * *

Onslaught tightened his grip. Pinned to the wall by his throat, Vortex rolled his optics and conceded the point. 

Brawl cheered from the sidelines, earning a glare from Blast Off. Swindle sat a little way from them, hardlight screen now joined by a hardlight keyboard glowing in the air in front of him, the numbers still spinning. 

“You’re off your game,” Onslaught commented, letting Vortex drop. 

He landed clumsily, but swung around into a defensive stance. “Had a busy night,” he commented. “Gonna need a favour.”

Onslaught crooked a finger, backing up into the center of the training ring. Vortex followed, rolling his shoulders and giving Onslaught a quick look over for obvious damage. Brawl yelled the score and gave the signal for them to start. Vortex went on the attack, gleeful and quick, with a complete disregard for style. He didn’t bother with form or strategy or predictions. It was good to just be able to hit something. Or try to hit something. Onslaught took a glancing blow to the face, dodged a kick to the weak spot which had developed at his waist after his bout with Blast Off. And two seconds later Vortex was on his back on the floor and Brawl was yelling again, declaring the point and the match in Onslaught’s favour. 

“Blast Off, Brawl, you’re next,” Onslaught said. “Swindle, keep score.”

Swindle gave a thumbs up, optics locked on the screen. Vortex let Onslaught drag him to his feet. He shook out his blades, not bothering to check on the damage. It hurt good, and for the moment that was perfectly fine. 

“So speak,” Onslaught said, when they were back at the bench. 

Vortex sat beside him, and grabbed a can of coolant. “I need you to claim spoil,” he said. “You have the right, and it’s not like you’ve used it before.”

Onslaught gave him a sidelong glance. “Why?” 

Vortex chugged the coolant, watching Brawl warily circling Blast Off. “He won’t do another civilian, I think we hit his limit there.”

“That’s too bad,” Onslaught said. 

“Yeah, it really is.” 

Out in the ring Brawl made his move. Blast Off dropped, swung around, and seized Brawl by one leg to hoist him dangling in the air. Brawl swore; Swindle called the point. 

Onslaught waited until Swindle called for them to begin again before continuing. “A corpse wouldn’t be any use,” he mused. “Am I to understand that the dead Autobot I claim won’t actually be dead?”

“Not in so many words,” Vortex replied. 

Onslaught nodded and fell silent. 

“I’ll give it back when we’re done,” Vortex said. “We can get it reprogrammed. Swindle’s always whining about needing a drone.”

“Swindle _has_ performed well recently,” Onslaught said. 

“Scrapper claims spoil all the time. Hun-Grrr too. Motormaster does it for spare parts.”

Onslaught sighed as Brawl lost five points to zero. “It would be remiss of me not to.” He raised his voice. “Swindle, pair with Brawl. Blast Off, keep score.”

Blast Off nodded, and Swindle held up a hand. “One sec! I just gotta… There, done. OK.” The screen and keyboard folded in on themselves, and he got up to wander over to where Brawl was bouncing up and down on the spot. 

“Do I want to know what you’re plotting?” Blast Off said, taking a seat between Onslaught and the small pile of fuel and coolant. 

“I doubt it,” Onslaught replied. 

Blast Off stood again. “I see.” He ordered Swindle and Brawl to begin, and gave Vortex a stern look. “Don’t get caught,” he said, and walked away. 

“Aye, sub-commander,” Vortex muttered. 

Onslaught looked amused. “I’ve scheduled the two of you some team bonding time,” he said. “Dead End is a side project, remember that. This team is your priority, and you haven’t been as… present as usual lately.”

Vortex grinned. “I can make up for that.” He crumpled his coolant can into a vaguely person-shaped lump. “So, you’re gonna claim me some spoil?”

Onslaught glanced over at the sparring, where the first point was just coming to an end with Brawl holding Swindle in a headlock. He nodded. “Who?”

* * *

Dead End shivered in the Stunticon rec room, waiting for Motormaster. Wildrider and Drag Strip had been banished for the evening, Breakdown had holed himself up in his room, pretending to watch TV. He’d be listening, but Dead End couldn’t bring himself to care. Motormaster’s desire to have A Talk About His Relationship with Vortex present was already excessively humiliating, it couldn’t be any worse even if Breakdown was in the room with them. 

Vortex arrived five minutes late with dents and paint scrapes, but at least he was clean. 

“What happened to you?” Dead End hissed. 

“Training,” Vortex said. “You should see Swindle.” He drew back his mask; he was smiling. “You good?”

“Terrible,” Dead End said. He pouted, and Vortex kissed him. 

“How terrible?” he asked. 

“Just… I’m better than this morning, but Scavenger came… He did a scan.”

“What did he think?” Vortex said.

Dead End’s spark churned, the corona seeming to tug, reaching for Vortex’s energy field. He slid off the chair into Vortex’s arms. “He doesn’t know,” he said, voice muffled against Vortex’s chest. “He’s taking the data to Scrapper. They’re going to try to work out what the weapon was.”

Vortex stroked his back, energy field flaring across his sensor net. “It’s gonna be fine,” he said. “ _You’re_ gonna be fine.”

“But-”

Vortex shushed him, and Dead End pressed as close as he could, an ache forming deep in his chest. “I’m getting you a present,” Vortex said quietly. 

Dead End looked up, but any questions he could have asked died on his lips as Motormaster’s heavy footsteps became audible in the hallway outside. 

“Are you trying to combine?” he commented, glancing up from his data pad as he entered the room. He shut the door behind himself. “Sit, both of you. Preferably not on top of one another.”

Vortex gave one last ripple of his energy field, and grabbed a chair. 

Motormaster pulled up a chair for himself, and settled opposite them, clipping the data pad to his arm. He glared at Vortex, then coughed. “Very recently,” he said, “I was persuaded to revise my opinion of your… relationship.” He scowled. “This morning has made me question my decision.”

Vortex propped an elbow on the table, all his attention on Motormaster. Dead End sighed.

“You should both know better,” Motormaster continued. “The ruins aren’t a playground, Cybertron is not a pleasure garden. It’s dangerous out there.” 

“We can handle it,” Dead End protested. 

“On duty, yes you can,” Motormaster said. “With your team, you can. Not gallivanting off like a pair of overclocked idiots.”

“With respect,” Vortex said quietly, “we were both fully armed, and I got him back safely.”

“Safely?” Motormaster’s jaw dropped. “ _Safely?_ Is that what you call ‘safely’?” He pointed at Dead End. “He could have been killed! His circuits were scrambled, he couldn’t even see straight when you brought him back. He could hardly walk!”

“I’m fine!” Dead End snapped. 

“No you’re not!” Motormaster growled. “And I didn’t even know when you were injured, that black box of yours saw to that.”

“I need that!”

“You _need_ boundaries,” Motormaster said. “No more interfacing in the ruins. No more all-night trips away from base without my permission.”

Vortex nodded, and Dead End suppressed a wince as the knives whirled in his spark. 

Motormaster sighed. “I can’t deny that your dalliance has had a net positive effect on my team. This and only this is the reason I will continue to allow you to see each other.”

Vortex nodded again; Dead End wanted to scream. 

“ _But_ ,” Motormaster said, “the spark dampener is to be removed for duty shifts. No exceptions.”

“No problem,” Vortex said. 

“Good.” Motormaster glared at them each in turn. “You have one chance,” he said. “Push the boundaries, and I _will_ put an end to this. Is that understood?”

Vortex shrugged. “Yep,” he said, reaching for Dead End’s hand. Dead End had half a mind to snatch it away, but there was an edge of mischief to Vortex’s energy field and suddenly his easy compliance didn’t seem like so much of a betrayal. 

“Do I need to bring in a rule about no canoodling in my presence?” Motormaster said, his optics narrowing. 

“Maybe,” Vortex said, laughing as though Motormaster had meant it as a joke. “You know, with all this talk about boundaries, I think it’s time we tackled a different one.”

Motormaster gave him a sharp look. “I don’t follow.”

“You don’t like me, you don’t like my team.” Vortex shrugged, as though none of this could possibly be personal. “I think it’s time I did something about that.”

“What exactly?” Motormaster asked, more than a hint of suspicion in his voice. 

Vortex replied as though the question wasn’t loaded. “Dead End’s had a rough time,” he said. “I think you’ve had a rough time dealing with the fallout. Maybe we could do something to make you both feel better. And maybe it’ll help take the edge off the animosity.”

Dead End gaped as realisation dawned, then closed his mouth and tried to look as neutral as possible. 

“I am not projecting animosity,” Motormaster snarled. “What… exactly are you proposing?”

“Just what’s in the staff manual,” Vortex said. “You never know, you might even like it.”

Motormaster’s optics flickered, and Dead End found himself wanting the team bond, just to know if his commander was shocked or angry or embarrassed. Motormaster coughed. “You’re… proposing we interface?”

“Not right now,” Vortex said with a nod to Dead End. “He’s still all shaken up. But later maybe, when he’s recovered and you’ve had time to get used to the idea.”

“Now would be fine by me,” Dead End said quietly. 

“No it wouldn’t,” Motormaster said sternly. “You’re in no fit state to exert yourself.”

Dead End went to object, but Vortex got in first. “You need rest,” he said.

“He does,” Motormaster added. “And he will get it here, under my supervision. It’s time that you went back to your own team.”

Frustration flickered in Vortex’s energy field, but he shrugged and gave Dead End’s hand another squeeze. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, and it seemed as much for Motormaster’s benefit as it was for Dead End’s. 

Dead End held on a moment longer than he should, then let his hand drop. He watched Vortex leave, the knives again whirling in his chest. 

“It’s for your own good,” Motormaster said. “Come, I’m taking you to your room.”

Dead End stood and walked slowly to the door. “You didn’t have to send him away.”

“And if I hadn’t?” Motormaster said. “He isn’t team, he doesn’t stay.”

Glaring at the floor, Dead End shuffled down the hall, Motormaster behind him, a hand on his back. 

“Your own room,” Motormaster said. “I didn’t send Vortex away to have you to myself. You _need_ rest, and rest is what you’re getting.” He unlocked the door and waited for Dead End to enter. “On the bunk, now.”

“I’m in my room, I’m not exerting myself.”

Sighing, Motormaster swept Dead End off the floor and deposited him on his back on the bunk. “Now stay there. I’ll be checking on you. And no comms!”

Dead End rolled over, pushing his face into the foam. After a moment a softness registered on his back, and he was sure Motormaster had been swayed by the pleasing angles of his slightly raised aft. But it was just a thermo-regulation blanket. 

Motormaster stepped back. “Now rest,” he ordered, and left.

* * *

“I thought you were busy.” Blast Off spoke without looking up from his data pad. He hit the remote control to re-seal and lock his door, and Vortex had to lurch forward to avoid getting his rotors trapped. 

“Plans changed,” Vortex said. “Turns out I’ve got the night off after all.” 

This time Blast Off did look at him. There was no smile on his lips, no glint in his optics. But he adjusted his posture, moving the data pad over the arm of his chair and uncrossing his legs. It was as clear an invitation as he was going to get, and Vortex responded by depositing himself in his team mate’s lap.

“I’m all yours,” he said, draping himself across the shuttle.

Blast Off’s optics returned to his reading material. “It’s about time,” he replied, his free hand finding Vortex’s rotor hub, fingers twining with the blades. “When you embarked on this little project of yours, I was given to understand that it would have no detrimental effect on our team cohesion.”

Vortex looped an arm around Blast Off’s neck. “It hasn’t,” he said. “Has it?”

The scrolling text slowed. “Onslaught had to schedule your presence this evening,” Blast Off said. “And even then I received a call from you asking to postpone.”

“Blame Motormaster,” Vortex said. He began to caress the back of the shuttle’s neck, flaring his energy field over the hidden sensors. “If it was up to me you’d have to throw me out.”

“You’re in too deep,” Blast Off commented, but he didn’t shrug his shoulders or tear Vortex away. He switched the data pad off with his thumb and tucked it into a pocket on the outside of the chair. “You need to disengage.”

“Too deep?” Vortex laughed. “I’m just screwing with them, it’s fine.”

“Really?” Blast Off didn’t sound convinced. “You killed a neutral, you involved that newbuilt groundframe. I’ve seen this before.” He went to continue, but Vortex shook his head. Swinging around to straddle Blast Off’s lap, he leaned up bringing them optic to optic. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. 

“You’re hardly here, either,” Blast Off countered. “We can’t afford for you to become disconnected from the team.”

Vortex grinned. “So connect me.”

Blast Off lay a hand over his interface hatch, and held it there. “Not yet,” he said. “Tell me what you hope to achieve.”

Vortex’s grin widened. “I hope to get thoroughly and mercilessly fragged by you,” he said. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”

“Don’t be abrasive,” Blast Off said. “You know what I meant.”

“You said you didn’t want to know,” Vortex replied. “You’ve said it five times since Ons first brought this up. It’s not something you need to worry about.”

Blast Off’s grip tightened. “If you were merely throwing a wrench into the complex machinery of their team bond,” he said, “then yes, I would agree with my former assessment. But you’re not, this has evolved. What are you doing with Dead End?”

“That _is_ what I’m doing,” Vortex said, flaring his energy field and sighing at the wave of heat he received in return. But it came with a warning growl. His grin faded. “I’m just letting him do what he wants to do,” he said. “He’s kinda self-destructive, I’m smoothing the way for him.”

Blast Off’s engine rumbled, the tact shifting slightly from angered to demanding. “You can’t keep him,” he said. “You can’t hold onto him like you did the others, you do know that.”

“Sure,” Vortex said, shivering in the tingling wash of Blast Off’s energy field. “This is different. I’m just having some fun, that’s all. It’ll be over soon, and when it is...” He pressed closer. 

“You’re all mine?”

“Always,” Vortex whispered. His grin returned as Blast Off slid the cover from his panel and twined his hand amid the cables. 

“Dead End isn’t your protégé,” Blast Off said, “you can’t train him, you can’t keep him. He isn’t important.”

“Uh-huh!” Vortex nodded, his connectors sparking against Blast Off’s fingers. He felt those large fingers draw out a cable, his vents stilled and his vision filled with the violet glow of the shuttle’s optics until the plug clicked home and the interface spread through him like a sunrise. 

“This team is important,” Blast Off said, unwinding cables of his own and plugging into every available port. “You belong with us.”

“I’m yours,” Vortex moaned, his vision blacking, morphing. He lost all sense of direction, of gravity. The interface spread a starscape, conjured a legion of phantom hands to touch him all over. He floated in a bliss of tactile sensation. “Only yours, completely yours.”

The interface rang with vicious agreement, with possessiveness as bright as a supernova. “ _Mine._ ”


	11. Chapter 11

“He’s right,” Breakdown said, red optics cresting the bunk like tiny twin suns. “You need to rest.”

After the initial jolt of shock, the wash of relief was intense. Dead End groaned and hid his face in the surface of the bunk. “I _was_ resting,” he said. “I was in recharge until you came in.”

“Not restfully,” Breakdown said. He stood and crawled up next to Dead End. “I could hear you through the wall.”

“You shouldn’t have been listening.”

Breakdown settled under the blanket Motormaster had found, nestling close. “I couldn’t help it,” he said. “You were yelling things. What did he do to you?”

“What are you blathering about?” Dead End mumbled. 

Breakdown sighed. “Nothing,” he said. “Just… If he wanted you to do something you didn’t want to do, you would tell us, right?”

Dead End grunted and rolled up to the wall. “Like stay in here?” he grumbled. “Vortex isn’t the problem. I’m not a drone, I have a life.”

“I know,” Breakdown said. He followed Dead End across the bunk and leaned up on his elbows. “I looked up that book you were reading. I read it.”

“Book?” Dead End repeated. He rebooted his vision. “What book?”

“ _Heliostatic_ ,” Breakdown said. “It was kinda OK. A bit sappy, but I liked the fight scenes.”

“Oh, that.”

“The sparkbond plot was stupid though,” Breakdown continued. “Why didn’t Rheostat just leave? She could have been CMO on that big spaceship.”

“Eh.” Dead End tugged on Breakdown’s arm. “If you’re going to stay, roll over.”

Breakdown’s energy field flared with sudden suspicion. “You don’t want to interface? you told Motormaster you wanted to-” 

“You need to stop eavesdropping,” Dead End said. He sighed. “No, I don’t want to interface, not with you. You’re the one who invaded my bunk, I’m assuming you want to stay. Now are you going to roll over or not?”

Breakdown’s engine gave a brief rev, then he flopped on his side and left Dead End curl around him. 

“Better?” Dead End asked. He waited for the nod of assent before relaxing. “I’m cold,” he said. “Rev your engine again.”

“You’ll throw up,” Breakdown warned. 

“No I won’t.” Dead End shivered and tugged Breakdown closer, pressing his chest to the other’s back. “Please?”

Huffing, Breakdown complied. “If you’re sick over me...”

Dead End hummed, immersing himself in the vibrations. “Again?” he said, shuddering as the uncanny key of Breakdown’s engine made his bolts judder and his fuel pump slow. He clung to the warmth, feeling it seep through his chest to dull the knives in his spark. “And again?”

“That’s all,” Breakdown said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dead End didn’t reply. The effect lasted, a buffer between his sensor net and the chasm in his chest. He took his optics offline and dug his hand in under Breakdown’s arm to lessen the chill. 

Breakdown’s engine stuttered and there was a hiss as he re-set his vocal processors. “Was Vortex serious?” he said. “About... you know.”

Dead End struggled to remember what ‘you know’ was. He smiled. “I hope so.”

“You hope so? But…”

“We’ll keep it to ourselves,” Dead End said, uncertain whether the drowsiness was making his voice slur or his audials glitch. 

Breakdown tensed, but for a long while he didn’t reply, and sleep had almost caught up with him by the time Breakdown said, “Dead End?”

“Hmm?”

“Has Vortex asked you to sparkbond with him?”

Dead End jolted awake. “What?” When Breakdown merely cringed, he forced a ripple of amusement through his field. “Of course he hasn’t. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be laughing. Now go to sleep.”

Breakdown muttered something that sounded like “He’d better not,” and finally turned off his optics. Dead End sighed and held him tight.

* * *

The following day Vortex called as promised. Dead End was on monitor duty. Motormaster had swapped his roster around and taken Drag Strip out on patrol; Breakdown had gone too, leaving Wildrider to keep a twitchy eye on Dead End’s general wellbeing. 

Dead End took the call on his internal feed. 

“How are things?” Vortex asked, and Dead End snuck a glance at Wildrider, trying to work out if he’d guessed there was a conversation going on. But Wildrider was playing ‘What’s Dirge Doing?’ on the security feed, making notes on a personal datapad and humming a little song he and Drag Strip had made up. 

“Dull,” Dead End replied, glancing over his own monitors. “Motormaster sent Breakdown to keep guard last night.”

“Shame,” Vortex said. “Are you free later?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll try to be.” Dead End winced at a sting in his chest. “I tried to take the dampener out this morning, but it’s jammed.”

“I’ll take a look later.”

Dead End twisted away from Wildrider, a hand to his chest. He wanted to open the plates, see if a good nudge would stop the weird periodic jabbing. He settled for a deep vent. 

“Are you OK?” Vortex said. 

“Better than yesterday,” Dead End replied. “They’ve put me on monitor duty.” He coughed. “Were you serious about us and Motormaster?”

Vortex laughed. “Hell yeah. Are you having second thoughts?”

“And third thoughts,” Dead End said. “But I think it would be beneficial. He needs to trust you with me.”

“I’m sure we can put on a show he won’t forget,” Vortex said, and his words came accompanied by an image that made Dead End’s spark swell. He coughed to cover the whirr of his fans. 

“I’m on duty!” 

“You’re so cute when you’re scandalised,” Vortex said. “OK, I gotta get back to work. I’ll comm you when I get out.”

Dead End kept the channel open a few seconds after Vortex had hung up, then forced his optics to focus again on the monitors. 

“Having some fun?” Wildrider whispered into his audial. 

Dead End nearly leapt out of his chair. “Get back to your post! How… What’s wrong with you?!”

“Lighten up!” Wildrider said, giving him a weirdly gentle bump with his helmet. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell anyone about your illicit comm sex.”

“I wasn’t!” Dead End whirled around and glared. “It was just a regular conversation. And who are you to talk about illicit, you’re stalking Dirge!”

Wildrider shrugged. “It’s only a game,” he said. “And what the frag use are we in here anyway? Watch the loading bays, watch the storage, watch the corridors, it’s all a pile of scrap. We don’t get the periphery cameras or those spy cams Soundwave has out in the ruins.”

Dead End continued to stare. “You’re actually annoyed about this.”

“Course I am!” Wildrider flopped onto the side of Dead End’s console. “This is such a blow off. What’s the point? We cover for our friends when they’re doing something dodgy, we rat out the cogheads we don’t like. There’s a reason Soundwave doesn’t do this stuff himself: it’s _boring_.” 

“They’re hardly going to task us with high level security,” Dead End said. 

“Why the frag not? They task us with patrols, they get us on supply runs, weapons seizures, rounding up the neutrals when they won’t stay the frag out the way. Either they gimme a perimeter cam to watch or I’m gonna sit here and play Dirge Bingo.”

“Dirge... Bingo,” Dead End repeated.

“Yeah, like that game Doc Arkeville used to play, where you watch out for stupid things Starscream does and tick ‘em off a grid. Only with Dirge.” Wildrider flipped his data pad in Dead End’s face. “Drag Strip made a board thing. First one to a full house gets the prize.”

“That’s-”

“Inane? Yeah, I know.” Wildrider rolled his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “We don’t even have a prize, Drag Strip says he’s gonna think of something, but it’ll be something only he likes.” He whistled out his vents, and looked down at Dead End. “If I ask you something, are you gonna yell at me?”

“I… that entirely depends,” Dead End said. “Why don’t you try me?”

“‘Cause I’ll get yelled at?” Wildrider said, but he was smiling. “Are you gonna screw Motormaster at the next team bonding thing?”

“Am I what?”

“Come on, we all know it’s happening! Are you gonna?”

Dead End wheeled his chair to the opposite end of his bank of monitors. “That’s personal,” he said. 

“Ha! Nice one. We’re gestalt, we don’t do personal. So are you?” Wildrider scuffed his toe on the floor. “I kinda got a bet on with Drag Strip.”

Dead End buried his face in his hands and counted three long cycles of his vents before he looked up again. “It would hurt Breakdown,” he said. “So no.”

Wildrider whooped. “Ha! Frag yeah. I called it!” His grin widened. “What about if Breakdown wasn’t around?”

“Did you bet on that too?” Dead End asked. 

“Maybe.”

Dead End blew a mote of dust off the back of his arm. “If Breakdown wasn’t there it wouldn’t be team bonding, would it?”

“Uh, yeah it would.” Wildrider said. “He doesn’t have to be there for everything.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to wait and see,” Dead End said, and the look on Wildrider’s face was enough to briefly override the emptiness in his spark. 

“You’re different,” Wildrider said, his optics narrowing. 

Dead End smirked. “Perhaps,” he said, venting deep to dispel the weird sensation of the chasm reopening within him. He glanced over the monitors. “You’re right,” he said. “This is boring. Last time we were here you made a suggestion.”

He waited for Wildrider to organise his thoughts, his expression shifting from confusion to surprise to disbelief. 

“Soundwave’s probably watching,” Dead End said. “It would be a risk…”

Wildrider laughed. “Nah, I’ve screwed Drag Strip in here before, never so much as got a memo.” He gave Dead End a look. “Are you serious?”

Dead End gave the screens a last check and eased himself out of his chair. “Very,” he said. He crooked a finger at Wildrider and backed up into the corner by the door, out of view of anyone who happened to pass by and look in. 

Wildrider’s grin turned feral, and he followed. Dead End leaned back on a slanting section of wall. It wasn’t enough to support him, but he spread his thighs to let Wildrider touch him, and gasped as the slightest pressure was enough to trip the latch on his covers. 

“I don’t usually spike,” Wildrider said, pressing close to nibble on Dead End’s neck. “But I’ve always wanted to try you.” He flicked a finger over Dead End’s anterior node, laughing as he squeaked. “You sure you want this?”

Dead End nodded fervently. “Yes. Now. I want it now!”

“Motormaster’s gonna kill me if I hurt you,” Wildrider said, drawing Dead End into a sloppy kiss while his fingers stroked around Dead End’s rim and over his nub. “You gotta tell me if you want me to ease up, OK?”

“Uh-huh!” Dead End thrust himself into the kiss, the touching. He brought a leg up, his foot finding purchase on the edge of the bank of monitors Wildrider was meant to be watching. He tried to ignore his spark, the chasm, the shards of Fragment still embedded in his mind. “More!” he demanded, and Wildrider stroked him faster, flaring his energy field and grunting as Dead End’s hand wrapped around his stiffening cord. 

“I can’t believe you want this,” Wildrider whispered. “Frag, I felt it when Motormaster was screwing you.” He ground closer, dipping his fingers deeper on each tantalising cycle of stroking. “I didn’t know you were liking it so much.”

“Tell me,” Dead End said, bucking his hips to increase contact with his nodes. 

“You were so fraggin’ tight around him, and you looked so good, all shiny and polished, and you smelt like wax and warm oil. He loved it, being in you that night, then when he fucked you on that chair in the morning. Feeling all that, I wanted to screw you _so hard._ ”

Dead End moaned, unable to spread his thighs any wider. He teased the tip of Wildrider’s cord, trying to draw it closer. Wildrider shifted and pushed up, and Dead End threw his head back and groaned at the sudden fullness. He clung to Wildrider’s shoulders, clenching down on the spike, trying to make himself tighter, smaller, to increase the feeling of Wildrider’s stiff flanges dragging through him. 

“Frag, you feel good,” Wildrider groaned, rocking into him with surprising care. He hooked an arm under Dead End’s leg and leaned back a little to watch. “You look good too,” he said. “Motormaster liked this, liked watching his spike slide into you. I can’t believe it fit, you’re so tight and ugh I wanna watch him do you so bad.” He brought out Dead End’s cord, grinning down at the sight of it. “I never knew you were so pretty there.”

Dead End tensed against the growing overload, but could do nothing to delay it. He was helpless in the face of Wildrider’s unexpected adoration, with his valve full and his nub licked by each of the flanges as Wildrider slowly thrust. He had no idea it could be like this. Even when Wildrider laughed in triumph at having made him come, and began to chase his own overload, Dead End could do nothing but cling to the aftershocks and wish that it could go on forever. 

All too soon Wildrider stiffened, grunting as he came. He held himself still, his cord pulsing and twitching. “Wish Drag Strip was here,” he said. 

“So he could see you got there first?” Dead End asked with a fond flicker of his energy field. 

“So he could take a turn,” Wildrider said. “You’re all shivery, but you still got a ton of charge in there. I can feel it.”

Dead End clenched as hard as he could. “When did you become so perceptive?”

Wildrider moved slowly inside him. “I’m not what you thought, huh?” He withdrew, substituting two fingers for his spike before Dead End could register his disappointment. “Guess we both got a fun surprise today.”

Dead End sighed. “Keep going?” 

Wildrider thrust deep, curling his fingers to tickle Dead End’s ceiling node. “I ain’t stopping till you’re satisfied.”

* * *

Vortex leaned against the wall and wiggled his dented mask. Ultra Magnus was lively, even under sedation, and his shoulder pylons evidently weren’t just for decoration. Vortex nodded to Astrotrain, who stepped out of the shadows to unshackle Magnus from his chair, and lead him out of the interrogation room. 

The door stayed open a fraction too long, one hulking shadowy figure exchanged for another. 

“Commander,” Vortex acknowledged. He went over to the table and perched on the edge. 

Onslaught closed the door behind him. “You’ve done well,” he said aloud, and added on a private frequency, “We need to talk, is this area safe?”

“Well enough for a drink?” Vortex said aloud. “I’ve got two breems, you’re buying.”

Onslaught laughed, while his optics probed the corners of the room, looking for Soundwave’s cameras. 

Vortex led him out of the intel suite, on a winding path past a commercial energon vending machine, where Onslaught condescended to buy him an overpriced cube, then to a windowed niche at the junction between two corridors. “Clear,” he said quietly, as Onslaught passed him the tiny drink. “Copper sprinkles, nice.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Onslaught said. “Tell me, where are we with your private project?”

“It’s good,” Vortex said. He tried to retract his mask, but it stuck. “Did you make the request?”

Onslaught nodded. “It was approved. I’ll collect it later today.”

Vortex wrenched, pulling his mask out of its sockets. “Can you dump it in my room?” he said. “It’s not coming out of stasis by itself, but I’ll probably need to give it a clean before we can use it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Onslaught leaned forward, wiping a dribble of energon from the edge of Vortex’s helm. “Dead End is very particular about cleanliness?”

Vortex shrugged. “He likes shiny things.”

“How close are you to achieving our primary objective?”

“Already?” Vortex swilled his drink, watching the sprinkles dance. 

“Don’t tell me Blast Off was right,” Onslaught said. “You know you can’t keep him.”

Vortex frowned. “Yeah, I know.”

“Are you ready to do whatever it takes?”

“Of course I am. Frag.” Vortex drained the tiny cube, the flecks of copper tingling as they went down. “You still haven’t told me what this is all about.”

“You know the primary objective,” Onslaught said. “Further than that, you will have to trust me.”

“You better know what you’re doing.”

“Do you?” Onslaught peered into Vortex’s visor, his presence watchful in the team bond. “Your objective was and still is to destabilise. To an external observer, you appear to have had the opposite effect.”

“They’re getting along, so what? You give the word, and it all comes crashing down.” Vortex licked the remaining sprinkles from the edge of the cube. “I trust you with the big stuff, you can trust me with this. I know what I’m doing.”

Onslaught watched him. “Be ready,” he said. “I may need you to act on very little notice, is that understood?”

Vortex nodded. Heavy footfalls echoed through the corridor, the team bond pinging with a proximity warning. “Loud and clear,” he said, as Blast Off rounded the corner. 

Blast Off inclined his head to Vortex, and gave Onslaught a haughty look. “Are we ready?” he asked. 

Onslaught stood. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Satisfaction lasted long enough to see Dead End to the final few minutes of his shift. Wildrider’s smug grin was likely to last a lot longer, and Dead End found himself oddly pleased by the idea. It was as though he’d turned into a prize, shiny and desirable. It soothed his spark to know how much he was wanted. 

When Octane and Runabout turned up to relieve them, Wildrider sped whooping from the control room, presumably to find Drag Strip and gloat. Dead End exited at a seemly pace, and opened a channel to Vortex on his internal comm. 

“What’s up, hot stuff?” Vortex said. “You doing OK?”

“Fine, fine, how long until you’re free?”

“I dunno, a few hours. I’ll call you when I get out.”

“OK.” Dead End killed the comm, disappointment rising like bad oil. He delved into a team bond to look for Motormaster, but the way was blocked, and the emptiness of his broken spark bond nearly swallowed him. 

“Mind where you’re going!” someone snapped, and Dead End swayed to avoid a foot the size of his own leg. He looked up, into a bright purple glare. Blast Off sniffed, his derision clear. Beside him, Onslaught seemed more kindly disposed. 

“Don’t mind him,” Onslaught said. “He isn’t himself. He was attacked in the ruins, some kind of experimental Autobot weapon. Dead End, do you require an escort back to your team?” 

Dead End shook his head. “No, I… I’m…” 

“I thought Vortex said he was eloquent?” Blast Off commented. “Do. You. Require. An. Escort?”

“I am perfectly eloquent!” Dead End folded his arms. “And no, I do not.” 

“Very well.” Blast Off stalked away; Onslaught paused a moment before following. 

Shivering, Dead End leant on the wall. He called up the team roster on his internal feed; Motormaster was still on duty, Breakdown with him. He could always call them, but no, they were busy and it wasn’t like they could help. What could he even tell them? He pushed off from the wall and transformed.

Driving helped a little, especially when he got outside. The stars overhead, the coolness of the roads. He kept to the base, doing a few circuits of the race track before transforming again and letting his feet guide him.

There was no-one to watch him near the entrance to the prison block. He called up the list of the condemned, scrolled through until he found their projected dates of execution. None were scheduled to die before Dead End’s next duty shift, but his spark ached and his core hurt and the dampener was still jammed in place. If he couldn’t take it out, Motormaster wouldn’t be able to punish him for it. He’d just have to live with it. It would only be for a week, and by then his Autobot would be dead and he would be free, and Motormaster need never know. 

His hands shaking, Dead End entered Vortex’s code. He pressed enter and the moment stretched. The the door swung open and he was inside. 

Sneaking past the guard station wasn’t hard. Brawl was laughing to himself, visor glued to a screen. Dead End caught a glimpse of an old-style Cybertronian TV show as he passed; Brawl had his mask off, an energon stick in his hand, halfway to his mouth.

Dead End’s spark whirled, spinning on an axis of nothing. He got through the next set of doors and tried to remember which cells had the broken cameras. 

Maybe it was none of them. Maybe Brawl would catch him and Soundwave would know, and everything would be lost. Or maybe it was all of them, which gave him his pick of the prisoners. He scrolled through the list again. A few groundframes, another Aerialbot. He peered into the cells, looking away at the slightest hint of a reciprocal glare, trying to gauge who was asleep or feigning sleep and who was damaged beyond movement. 

Eventually, he tried a lock. The keypad was stiff, the keys sticking. He entered Vortex’s code three times before it worked. Venting deep, he crept into the room. His Autobot lay on the dented iron bunk, hands above his head and scratches all down his frame. Dead End approached, as quiet as he could manage. His vents were coming faster now, his spark swelling in its cage. 

The Autobot groaned, opening wide blue optics His lips twisted in a sneer. “I’ll kill you,” he rasped, spitting sparks with each word. “Don’t come any closer!”

“Shhh,” Dead End hushed him. “It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s what they all say!” the Autobot snarled. 

“It’s OK,” Dead End whispered, swallowing as he stepped within arm’s reach. “It’s all going to be OK.”

The Autobot rocked from side to side, his fingers twitching. But he didn’t lash out, he didn’t even sit up. 

“It’s really OK,” Dead End said, slipping the jimmy from a pocket on his leg. “You have nice lines. Are you Hot Rod?”

“Get fragged!” Hot Rod lurched to the side, but Dead End sat heavily on his legs, and pressed down on his chest. 

“Don’t struggle,” he said. “I’ll make it quick.”

Hot Rod heaved his arms off the bunk, but the effort was clearly too much and they fell back with a clatter. 

“Hush hush,” Dead End said, easing the jimmy into the central seam. “It’ll all be over soon, I promise.”

“What the frag? What are you doing? Get off me!” 

Dead End lunged for Hot Rod’s throat, pressing his thumbs in as hard as he could, aiming for the vocal processors. “You need to be quiet!” he hissed as Hot Rod thrashed, grimacing as his thumbs finally came together with a sickening crack. 

Hot Rod choked, and Dead End shuddered. “I didn’t want to,” he said. “I’m sorry, I really am, but you need to keep quiet.” He opened his own chest, wincing as the air hit his spark. “I need this,” he said. “I need it so bad, you have no idea.”

The merge was a contest, a dance. Dead End plugged them in, drowning a moment in Hot Rod’s pain, his confusion. Laughing at the tickle of something odd and alien in his dataflow, shuddering in delight as their coronas meshed tight and the bonding protocols flickered to life. Dead End sped through them, as fast as Hot Rod tried to retreat. 

“Don’t resist,” he said, “please…” But Hot Rod’s mind was a whirlwind, his core elusive. Dead End pursued him, cajoled him, tried to reason with him, but nothing worked. In the end he pushed his thumbs into Hot Rod’s throat again, seeking the primary coolant line and pressing, holding, until the steam rose from Hot Rod’s vents and he fell from consciousness. 

Shuddering, Dead End fought to make the final connections, to seal the permissions and bond them. 

“What the frag? Not again!” Brawl’s voice boomed, his hands heavy on Dead End’s shoulders. “The frag is wrong with you?” he yelled. He pulled, and Dead End screamed, his corona splitting, tendrils straining for Hot Rod, until Brawl yanked and the sparks fell apart. “I thought you were meant to be the bright one.” Brawl slammed Dead End’s chest back together and hoisted him over one shoulder. He crouched, doing the same for Hot Rod, and slapped his cheek until he groaned. “On my watch,” Brawl grumbled, tugging Dead End’s cables free. “Has to be my fraggin’ watch.”

He dumped Dead End on a chair in the guard room. The world spun, and Dead End reached for the console only to land in Brawl’s arms. 

“Moron.” Brawl sighed, shoving him back on the chair. He roughly wound up Dead End’s cables and slammed his panel shut. “Seriously, what the frag is wrong with you?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Dead End said. “I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

“Yeah, I hear that lie before,” Brawl said, and for a moment it was as though he had a crown of violet light, then Swindle’s face appeared, peering over his shoulder.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Snuck in on Tex’s code again,” Brawl said. “I told him before, not on my watch!”

“I bet you did.” Swindle glanced at the doorway. “I’ve got company in half a breem. Get rid of him.”

“I’m going!” Dead End said, making for the exit, but Brawl still had hold of him and he didn’t even get one step. 

“No you ain’t,” Brawl said. “He’s in no fit state, Swin, look at him!”

Swindle rubbed his optics. “Then stash him somewhere! I don’t have time for this.” 

“Yeah, and what _are_ you doing?” Brawl demanded. “I got duty for the next half joor, whatever you’re doin’s on my watch too!”

Swindle went over to the monitors. “They’re early, frag. OK, just keep him outta sight OK?” 

“You didn’t answer me,” Brawl growled. 

Swindle smiled. “What I’m doing is giving you fifteen percent of the profits, OK?” He wrapped his hand briefly around Brawl’s cannon barrel as he passed. 

Brawl grumbled, but made no further protest. Dead End squirmed. “I need to go,” he said. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“And what if you’re not?” Brawl said. He sat Dead End back on the stool and gripped his head firmly, staring into his optics. “If anything happens to you, Tex is gonna wanna know why.”

“I’ll tell him why, it was all my idea.”

“Course it fraggin was,” Brawl said. “And it was a _bad_ idea. I dunno what you thought you were doing, but you can’t merge like that with someone, not without Tex around.”

Voices registered in the hallway, and Brawl rolled his optics. “OK, time to go play hide and don’t seek.”

There was a queasy moment while Brawl lifted him, but Dead End’s tanks quickly settled and the jolting made him giggle. 

“Shhh!” Brawl clapped a hand over his mouth. A door opened off the guard room, and Brawl bundled him inside. “Just stay there,” he said. “Try not to mess with the cleaning drones, the one at the back’s broken.” 

The door closed, plunging Dead End into darkness. He stifled a giggle, rocking back on the crate Brawl had perched him on, before his head met the wall. He stayed there a while, listening to the voices, trying to guess what they were saying from the timbre and tone. Something bad, no doubt, something dirty. He couldn’t help but find it funny. 

It wasn’t long before the door opened again. “What _are_ we going to do with you?” Swindle said. 

“Give him back to Tex,” Brawl said sternly. “And get Tex to change his fraggin’ access codes.”

“Now now,” Swindle said. “I’m sure Dead End would like a say in this, hmm?”

Dead End snickered. His spark was whole again, his frame was alive. He could ignore the background hum of unease because everything was so damn funny. “I… would appreciate it if you would take me to Vortex,” he said, pressing his lips together to stop himself from laughing. 

“Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen,” Swindle said. “Vortex is on duty, Interrogation Room Five I think. Not somewhere you’re authorised to go.”

“Then I’ll wait here,” Dead End said. “I’m good at waiting.”

Brawl gave him an incredulous look. 

“Maybe I should call your commander,” Swindle suggested. “Motormaster can come collect you.”

“Oh nonononono that’ll be fine. He’s on duty, we shouldn’t disturb him.” Dead End went to stand and dizzily sat back down. “I can get back to thing by myself!”

“Back to thing?” Brawl’s lip curled. “Swin… What did you give the pink and orange one?”

“Give?” Swindle said, his optics glimmering. “What makes you think-”

“ _Swin_ , he’s got a virus. Look at him.”

Swindle coughed. “He could have got that from anywhere.”

“He was plugged into prisoner three-two-two, they had a two way connection going on.”

Dead End tried to stand, and Swindle pushed him back down. “How long was he like that?”

“I dunno, not long.”

“Not long,” Dead End echoed. “Your optics are really very large.”

Swindle swallowed. “Tex is gonna kill us.”

“Kill _you_ ,” Brawl said. “Not me, I’m not the one sneaking in here giving viruses to prisoners.”

“It’s just an aphrodisiac,” Swindle said. “Don’t look at me like that, it makes good business sense!”

“You got the antidote?” Brawl said. Dead End swung his legs, his heels impacting with the crate and sending entertaining little shudders up his leg struts. 

“Antidote!” Swindle laughed. “The frag is this, TV? It’s a stim, it’ll last until it wears off.”

Brawl glared. “So Tex can’t screw his playtoy until the virus wears off? Yeah, he’s gonna be real pleased.”

“Sure he can,” Swindle shrugged. “Just no cables, that’s all.”

“I’m not a playtoy,” Dead End protested, although the image wasn’t exactly abhorrent. “Is Vortex free yet?”

“No!” Brawl snapped. “Swindle, this is your fault, you’re gonna deal with it. I gotta get back to work.”

“I’m working too,” Swindle said. “I _am!_ Private projects are still work. Hey Deadsie, what you gonna give us to keep quiet about your little indiscretion?”

Dead End looked up. “Give you?”

“Swin, c’mon.”

Swindle shook his head. “We’re doing you a favour here,” he said. “You could do me a favour in return, eh?” He loomed close, his smile overwhelming. “We’re all friends here.”

“What…” Dead End coughed. “What do you want?”

“How about we have a little trip to Vortex’s room and you let me in, eh?”

Dead End shook his head. “I don’t have a key. Why would you want to get into Vortex’s room?”

“Well then… You could reimburse me for the trouble you’re putting me to.” Swindle said. “I’m very partial to cold hard cash.”

Dead End bit his lip. “I don’t carry cash.”

“You don’t… Who do you think you are, Blast Off?”

“Motormaster says the cash economy is for criminals and neutrals,” Dead End said. He smiled as Brawl’s laughter erupted in the background. 

Swindle scowled, and Brawl cut in before he could respond. “Just let him go,” he said. 

“In this state?”

“Then take him back to your room. Or my room, whatever. He can stay there til Tex gets out.”

Dead End rather liked being picked up by Swindle. He wasn’t as forthright as Brawl, and he didn’t carry him completely, but Swindle’s spare tire was nice and bouncy against his arm, and the mech was warm. 

The room they ended up in could have been anyone’s, or no-one’s. Nothing was out on the surfaces, nothing cluttered the floor. A cleaning drone recharged in the corner of the ceiling, its antenna softly glowing. Swindle dumped Dead End on the bunk, and pulled a small slab of plastic from a nearby drawer. He pressed it into Dead End’s hand. 

“Watch some TV, entertain yourself.” He grinned, tapping Dead End on the nose. “And remember, you owe me.”

“Wait!” Dead End shuffled across the bunk. “Aren’t you going to stay?” But Swindle just gave him a cheerful little wave and left.

* * *

Breakdown chugged his coolant, glancing at the door of the break room. “I don’t like it,” he said. 

Motormaster fetched another cannister from the chiller, and a quarter cube of energon. He drank half and pushed the cube towards Breakdown. “Dead End?” he asked. 

“He’s still wearing the signal thing, I can’t feel him.”

“When he’s recovered, he will remove it,” Motormaster said. 

“ _If_ he recovers.” Breakdown sniffed the cube. “And he’s not being himself! He and Wildrider… and they were on duty!”

“I will have words with them.”

“You’re not angry,” Breakdown accused. “You like it.”

“Wildrider has a lesson to learn about timing,” Motormaster said. “I’ll make sure he learns it. Drink your energon.”

Breakdown glared, but did as he was told. “I don’t think it’s healthy,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t mean the interfacing.”

Motormaster took the cube and their empty coolant cans, and tossed them down the waste chute. “I’ve got two minutes, tell me.”

“This thing with Vortex,” Breakdown whispered. “The… dead people thing.”

Motormaster frowned. “Explain.”

Breakdown gave the door another furtive look, then went and closed it. He was shivering by the time he climbed back onto his stool. “Vortex has all these sensory vids of when he killed people before he got locked away. He’s sharing them with Dead End.” His engine revved. “I promised I’d try not to be all judging, but I can’t help it, it’s disgusting.”

Motormaster placed a hand on Breakdown’s back, his energy field a powerful thrum. “Easy,” he said. “Take a deep vent, that’s good. Now tell me, what vids?”

Breakdown shuddered. “Brawl was bragging to Wildrider and I was there and I heard them. Vortex used to kill people and film it, and that’s what he’s doing with Dead End when they’re alone, he’s showing him those films.”

“Are you certain Brawl was telling the truth?”

Breakdown nodded. “I… I talked about it to Dead End. He… it’s all true.” He tried to remember what Long Haul had taught him when he was new: count his vents in, count them out, focus in until the world was nothing but the cycle of air through his frame and the pulse of his commander’s spark signature. 

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Motormaster asked, and Breakdown cringed. 

“I thought you already knew!” Breakdown said. “You were in the room when I asked him about it. I… I wanted us to get along. Dead End promised to spend more time with us, with me. I.. just want it to be like it was back on Earth.”

“Oh Breakdown.” Motormaster sighed. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.” he said. “If you hear any more, let me know immediately. Is that understood?”

Breakdown nodded. “There’s… There’s something else. Vortex killed a neutral, it was a few months ago out in the ruins.”

“I take it this was not a legal execution?” Motormaster said. He rubbed Breakdown’s back, waiting. 

“N-no, no it wasn’t. His name was Aeroglide, I heard Octane talking about it. He was Octane’s friend, and… I don’t know, they got into an argument, something about Aeroglide owed Swindle money for something, but he couldn’t pay and then Vortex turned up and, and he went too far and… yeah.”

“Interesting,” Motormaster said. “Can you remember anything else?”

“Only… I don’t know, I… I heard that Onslaught wanted some kind of alliance with Sixshot, but the Terrorcons got in the way and Vortex put Cutthroat in stasis and that’s why they were sent to the colonies, so they don’t make Megatron look weak.”

Motormaster wrapped his arms around Breakdown. “Calm your engine,” he said. “Cutthroat isn’t in stasis, trust me, and there’s no evidence Vortex was even involved. I can’t tell you the details, but you shouldn’t listen to rumour.”

“Then what _should_ I listen to?” Breakdown demanded. “No-one tells me anything, I don’t have security clearance. All I can do is listen.”

“All right then,” Motormaster said, “you shouldn’t put so much faith in rumour. Does that work for you?”

Breakdown huffed. “Maybe.”

Motormaster returned to rubbing Breakdown’s back. “Can you tell me anything else about the films Vortex is showing to Dead End?”

Breakdown shook his head. “Only that I don’t like it,” he said. “I tried to be OK with it, but… It is pretty gross, isn’t it?”

“Gross is an understatement,” Motormaster said. “All right, I need to get back to work. I want you to find Dead End and take him back to our quarters, can do you do that?”

“I… I don’t know, I’ll try.”

* * *

Dead End waited for an eternity, watching his chronometer crawl through an entire five minutes before rolling off the bunk and trying the door. It opened with a soft hiss, admitting an aggressive stark light and the sound of laughter. Dead End closed it again, leaning against the jamb. His head spun, his audials itched. His interface hardware was idle, but his spark glowed hotly in his chest and he had that feeling he got in the instant before everything came online. But it wasn’t an instant, it was a constant, and it came hand in hand with a growing frustration. 

He shook his head. Everything was fine. Motormaster was on duty, Wildrider was busy. Breakdown would be watching his shows by now, bundled in a blanket with a handful of snacks. No-one was going to miss him. He could stay here, watch some TV, think of Vortex. 

Or he could think of Hot Rod, weak in his cell, on a countdown to extinction. Dead End shivered, and threw himself on the bunk. He lay as Hot Rod had done, arms limp, one leg dangling. With a sigh, he switched off his vision and submerged himself in the pulsing of his spark. 

The bond was shaky, insubstantial. But it was there, and Dead End grinned. He went deeper, probing the edges of his own consciousness, watching the thin bleed of data. 

Hot Rod drifted, not offline, but not entirely conscious. Dead End filtered information from the datastream, a mosaic of memory and sensor echoes. Hot Rod wasn’t alone. Someone snickered, someone else snapped. A growl of an engine, a screech of twisted metal. Dead End cringed at a pressure between his thighs, realising too late that it had been there all along. 

A door opened, and Dead End couldn’t tell if it was his current room or the cell. He imagined they were coming for him, to take him in every way imaginable, to kill him when they were done. 

“There you are.” A familiar voice, a dip in the bunk beside him. 

Dead End brought his vision back online. “Your face,” he said. “What happened?”

“Occupational hazard,” Vortex said. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“Back to yours, I hope,” Dead End said. He arched his back, taking his time getting up. 

“How long until you’re back on duty?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Dead End replied. He swayed within reach of Vortex’s energy field. “Until then, I’m all yours.” He looked up. “Vortex?”

Vortex sighed, and grabbed a hold of his shoulder tire. “Let’s move.”

* * *

Breakdown kicked Vortex’s door, cringing at the noise and spinning to make sure no-one was watching from either end of the corridor. It had taken him ages to work up the nerve to ring the buzzer, and now no-one was answering. If they were even in. He pressed his head to the metal, straining to hear past the sounds of his own body. If they were there, there were asleep, or dead, or sitting still as statues with their arms around each other, silently laughing at him. 

He hit the buzzer again and punched the door, and listened to the fading clang until the only thing he could hear was the glug of coolant making its way to his processor. 

If they _were_ pretending they weren’t in, they were doing a very good job of it. 

Breakdown slumped against the door, and tried Dead End’s comm again. He let it beep, pushing everything he had into the team bond. Dead End was on the base, he was alive. Breakdown’s engine roared in frustration, and the hallway’s striplights flickered. 

Shadows blinked at him, and Breakdown edged away. Dead End wasn’t in, which meant he was somewhere else. Maybe he was home already, sleeping or injured or dying or just watching a film and ignoring his comm. Breakdown transformed, putting a question mark against Vortex’s room on his mental checklist, and sped for the Stunticon dorm. 

* * *

Dead End cleaved to Vortex, thrilling in the brush of their energy fields, happily anticipating what might be in store for him. It was mildly disappointing that Vortex wasn’t flirting back, but they were in public, what could he expect? Dead End felt like he was floating, his mind adrift on a bubbly foam. Several times on the walk he started giggling, and only stopped when Vortex didn’t appear to share his amusement. 

His comm went off five times during the walk. He watched the light flash, thinking of Breakdown nuzzling Motormaster, of Wildrider bragging to Drag Strip. They each had someone, and he had Vortex, and it was his time now to do with as he pleased. He left the calls unanswered. 

As soon as they were safely inside Vortex’s room, Dead End threw his arms around Vortex’s neck. “Who took your mask? That looks painful, let me shoot them for you.” He laughed as Vortex lifted him, the door locking behind them and the room’s dim lights flickering on. It was a nice ambience, and Dead End flared his energy field in greedy anticipation. 

Vortex took him past a large crate that Dead End was certain hadn’t been there before, and set him down on the edge of the bunk. “Why?” he said, kneeling at Dead End’s feet. “Why did you go there without me?”

“I…” Dead End shook his head. “I just needed to. Connect with me?”

Vortex leant up and cupped his cheek. “You know I can’t right now. You went there without me even though you promised me you wouldn’t.”

“I feel fine! Honestly. More than fine!” Dead End tilted his head to kiss Vortex’s fingers. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you, but you were taking so long.”

“I was on duty,” Vortex said. “And now you’ve given yourself a virus.”

“I didn’t know! That was Swindle’s fault.” Dead End covered Vortex’s hand with his own. “I’m still yours,” he said. “Aren’t I?”

Vortex sighed. “You promised me,” he said. “Maybe I should let you sleep this off and we can talk again in the morning.”

“No! No, I’m fine, I can talk.” Dead End bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I… I needed to bond again, it hurt so much.”

“And did you?” Vortex asked. 

Dead End shivered. “Not exactly. Not successfully,” he lied. “I… tried. It was like the first time. I’m so sorry. Brawl...”

“He told me.” Vortex took a long vent, their helms pressed together. “You really fucked up, you know that, right?”

“I… Yes.” Dead End leaned against him. “I… I won’t do it again, please forgive me.”

Vortex pulled back to look at him, oddly quiet. 

“Please,” Dead End said. “I’ll do anything, I can’t lose you, I just can’t.”

Vortex shook his head, then gathered Dead End into his arms. “I don’t want to lose you either.” 

Dead End shivered with relief. “I’m still yours?” he asked.

Vortex held him for a long moment. “Yes,” he whispered. “How are you feeling?”

“It… still hurts,” Dead End said, although the pain was long gone. “And the signal dampener is stuck, I couldn’t get it out.”

“I’ll take a look.” Vortex let him go, his energy field like the pull of a magnet as he backed away. “Open up.”

“I wish we could connect,” Dead End said. He undid his chest, smiling as the purple light spilled out. A small part of him registered how bad an idea that would be, considering Hot Rod, how he’d lied. But the larger part of him wanted Vortex to fill him entirely, to cover and consume him. “Is it really stuck?”

“Uh… Yeah. I think one of the clips melted,” Vortex said. “It’s kinda wrapped all around a bunch of wires running off your spark casing. Shouldn’t take long to get it out though.”

Dead End leaned back on his hands. “We don’t need to do that now though, do we? Not when we’re all alone.” His optics fell on the crate. “Maybe we could just enjoy ourselves?”

Vortex pushed his armour back together, pressing gently as the latches fastened. “Are you sure? You know what kind of virus Swindle was using.”

“I know,” Dead End said. “I wanted you before that, it hasn’t changed anything.” He pressed their lips together, his spark soaring as Vortex allowed the kiss, as his hands sought Dead End’s waist, energy field flaring to caress hidden sensors, a wash of pleasure over his interface array. He moaned in frustration that he couldn’t use it, and sought out Vortex’s rotors, stroking the smooth metal until it buzzed. 

It lasted an eternity, and by the time Vortex pulled back, Dead End was trembling. Vortex smiled. “Is your spark still sore?”

“Very,” Dead End whispered. “Make it better?”

Vortex’s optics seemed to glitter, his smile taking on a wicked edge. “I have just the thing,” he said. “Stay there.”

Dead End blinked, vision rebooting as Vortex backed away. But the moment’s unthinking distress gave way to joy as the rotary tapped on the crate. 

“Your present,” he said. “It’s ready.”

Dead End craned forward to see, vents fast as Vortex removed the lid. A flash of red, waxed and shiny, the glint of a horn. His grin widened. “How did you get this?” 

“It wasn’t easy,” Vortex said, lifting the minibot from the box. It hung limp in his arms, but its optics weren’t lightless, and when Vortex laid it on the berth Dead End could feel the faint hum of its energy field. 

He touched its helm, then lay his hand over the scratched faction insignia on its chest. “Is it… Cliffjumper?”

Vortex nodded. “I’ve cleaned him up for you. Officially, he’s already dead. Onslaught requisitioned the corpse for a drone, but I thought you might like to play with him first.”

“Is he in stasis?” Dead End asked, probing Cliffjumper’s lips to see his denta. 

“For now,” Vortex answered. “Do you want him online?”

“I don’t know, perhaps.” Dead End smoothed his hands over the minibot’s glossy paint. “You polished him for me?”

“Nothing’s too good for you,” Vortex said, lifting Dead End’s hand and kissing his fingertips. “I’ve taken his hydraulics offline, he won’t be able to move.”

“And his vocaliser?”

“Isolated.” Vortex ran his glossa over the tiny pressure points on Dead End’s palm. “He’ll be nice and quiet for you”

“When can I…” 

“Now, if you like. We’ve got all night.” 

And most of the following day, Dead End thought. But maybe Vortex had factored in recovery time, and maybe they’d be able to lay together afterwards, and Vortex would polish him again like he had after Slingshot. He smiled, and turned over on the bunk, crawling slowly towards Cliffjumper. The view clearly wasn’t lost on Vortex, who settled behind him, hands gliding over his hips and thighs. 

Dead End took it slow. His spark was full, whole, he didn’t need to rush. His valve also felt full, echoes of Swindle’s customers invading Hot Rod as he lay in a half-conscious fever dream in the cell. He knew he should be repulsed, he could feel the disgust simmering under everything, but it was a shadow to the warmth of the virus and the bond-driven need to interface. 

Dead End straddled Cliffjumper’s legs, his panels retracting in a clear invitation. Vortex kissed from his ankle to his thigh, and Dead End sighed as he opened his gift. Cliffjumpers’s spark was like the ocean on Earth, a shifting mosaic of blues and greens. Vortex kissed the rim of Dead End’s valve, and he arched himself, spreading his thighs as far as they would go, presenting himself in the most vulgar display. He gasped as the kisses encircled his anterior node, and his valve clenched on the sensor echo of a wide, hot cord. 

His first overload was slow and gentle, a subtle bloom of pleasure radiating out from the focus of Vortex’s attention. His valve clenched and pulsed, his cord strained and came free of its casing. Vortex’s touch became teasing, his glossa tickling Dead End’s nub, dipping into his valve. There was a moment of aching coldness, as Vortex pulled away to plug Dead End into the Autobot, but he soon returned, and brought his fingers into play. 

“Don’t you want to…” Dead End swayed his hips, making his cable swing. 

“Plug into him?” Vortex said, twisting his fingers and making Dead End groan. “If you hadn’t plugged into Hot Rod...”

Dead End hung his head in shame. “I want,” he said, but cut himself off. “He’s waking up.”

Cliffjumper moaned, his optics brightening. His lips moved, his teeth bared. Dead End kissed his cheek, and blew air over his spark. How different he was inside than out. His frame was placid, his spark calmly glowing and his limbs arranged to accentuate his bulky little curves. But his mind roiled, a turmoil of loathing and terror, a sharp thirst for revenge. Dead End pushed into him, exploratory, curious. It wasn’t like with Hot Rod or Slingshot or Sideswipe, it wasn’t even like with Fragment. Cliffjumper was naked before him, his databanks bared, his coding exposed. 

Dead End sighed in wonder, leaning back onto Vortex’s hand. “What did you do to him?”

“I turned him into a gift,” Vortex said, “just for you.” His fingers thrust slowly, and Dead End could feel him change position. “Do you like him?”

“He’s perfect,” Dead End said. “You’re perfect. You know me so well.” He flared his energy field, grinning as Vortex laughed. Cliffjumper was screaming, yelling, casting every obscenity at Dead End through the interface. Vortex would have loved to have felt it, Dead End thought, and finally allowed his own chest to part. 

The bonding was no challenge. Dead End forced his way down, their coronas meeting, their coding coming into awkward synchronicity. Cliffjumper hated him, hated the sparkmerge, hated the warm uncoiling of the virus in his systems. He hated the way his cord began to stiffen, the moistening of his valve and the imposed release of his covers. He squirmed and dodged and fought to tug his spark away, to stay conscious long enough to resist. 

Dead End was impressed, but the new bond was forming, a new satisfaction growing in his core. He kissed Cliffjumper’s lips, imagining the limpness of his frame was submission, that the glaze in his eyes was simply the effect of beholding Dead End’s beauty. When their sparks finally separated, Cliffjumper’s screams had dulled to sobs, and it was as though Dead End’s spark held the entirety of his agony and anguish. He winced as his corona settled, slipping out of the interface as quickly as he could manage. 

He uncoupled himself and let his cables drop. Separate, it was better. Cliffjumper watched him, and Dead End alone could say what his gaze meant. 

“He’s yours,” Vortex whispered, something other than fingers rubbing a slick path over the rim of Dead End’s valve. “Take him.”

Shuffling to the side, Dead End raised one of Cliffjumper’s legs and got between his thighs. His opening glistened, as inviting as the Autobot’s mind was hostile. 

“It’s safe,” Vortex said. “I made sure for you. Go on.”

Pushing his way into that tight, wet space was like pumping his spike in a hot oil bath. It was wrong, abhorrent - Cliffjumper screamed anew, a dry echo in the sparkbond - but it was what Vortex wanted, and Vortex had gone to such lengths to prepare this gift. 

When Vortex mounted him, Dead End held still until the charge subsided. Then he began to thrust again, moving in Cliffjumper in the way he liked best when Vortex or Motormaster moved inside of him.

It was an age before he reached his peak, spilling hot inside his gift, staring down into the fathomless glory of his spark. He fell limp, and Vortex caught him, rolled him over and took him on his back with his chest wide open and the new bond settling hateful and raw. 

He let himself go as limp as the Autobot, falling into a fantasy where he was the captured enemy, forced to bond and granted life as long as Vortex wished it. But when Vortex slowed to kiss him, his cord rubbing hot at just the right angle, Dead End cast away the fantasy to kiss him back, to wrap his arms around Vortex’s neck, to pull him close and deep and clench around him. 

“So perfect,” Vortex whispered. “So beautiful.”

“I wish we could merge,” Dead End murmured, arching up until his spark tingled against Vortex’s energy field. “I wish we were team.”


	12. Chapter 12

Breakdown slunk through the base, his weapons charged and his engine growling. Dead End wasn’t in their dorm, he wasn’t in Reflector’s library or the medbay or any one of the public rec rooms scattered around the place. He wasn’t with Brawl, who Breakdown saw stomping away from the prison block, or with Wildrider, who was dozing upside down, draped over a recharging Drag Strip. Breakdown had half a mind to wake him up, Drag Strip too. But this was his mission, Motormaster had given him and him alone this task. He scowled, revving his engine at a blockage in the hallway. A soldier three times his size gave him a disgusted look that quickly morphed into a sickly worried look before he swaggered out of the way. 

Stupid public coolant dispensers. Breakdown thought about revving at it until it sprung a leak, but Motormaster wouldn’t want him using his ability like that. 

He wished Dead End had a similar ability, then Dead End could be safe. 

But he wasn’t safe. 

Vortex was with him. He had to be. Who else could make Dead End forget his team and go missing for hours on end? Breakdown plunged himself into the team bond; Dead End wavered, a spectre perceptible only if he focused really hard. He was still on the base, and so was Vortex. The rotary’s listing on the base’s data net showed him to be on site, but not where. As though the site wasn’t the size of a small city. 

Breakdown went over his checklist again. There were several places he couldn’t go, but then neither could Dead End: the prison block, the command centre, the war room, the officers’ accommodation. The intel compound was also out of bounds, and Breakdown had a sudden vision of Dead End strapped to a table while Vortex delved into his guts, pink to the elbows. 

But Dead End was fine. Dead End was an aft of a shitty team mate who wasn’t answering his comm. That was all. He was fine, he had to be fine. 

Breakdown checked on Wildrider and Drag Strip again. They were still sleeping. And Motormaster was still plugging away at his important commander duties, whatever they were. Breakdown trudged down yet another bland, boring corridor. This one had a window, a long strip high above most peoples’ heads showing a narrow sliver of sky. Breakdown cringed; he didn’t like the stars. 

He didn’t like the shadows either, and they were increasing. This part of the base was older, its walls not quite as smooth, its turns and recesses not the result of one unified architectural plan, but the end point of a process of development stretching back aeons. Breakdown shivered; the age of Cybertron was oppressive, its ancient ruins and deep, dark places sinister and menacing. But Dead End liked it, liked ruminating on the lives of the ancients, the things they believed. How they thought. 

Breakdown didn’t understand it, but Dead End was just as likely to be in the old base as not. Vortex was an ancient evil, a menacing thing from the depths of Cybertron’s past. Breakdown didn’t believe in the Golden Age, nothing was ever that good. But Dead End believed in it, enjoyed hearing about it. Maybe Vortex had taken him here to show him something from the past. 

Something bad, Breakdown thought. Vortex was up to something. Why else would he separate Dead End from his team for so long?

A background hum became the drone of voices. Breakdown couldn’t make out the words, but he trod lightly, careful to avoid the cracks where the floor might creak. He rounded a corner, the walls pitted and rough, a bar of light showing the outline of a closed door. 

He prepared to creep past. There were no access restrictions in this part of the base, but it was so empty, so quiet. It felt unwelcoming, and he didn’t want to be caught there. 

“Medical port, if you please.”

The words were clear, and Breakdown froze. He knew that voice, and as his data banks matched the vocal pattern to Shockwave, another spoke. “How long will this take?”

Onslaught. 

Breakdown stood rooted to the spot. 

“Approximately seventy astroseconds,” Shockwave replied. “Lower your firewalls.” There was a click and a pause, then Shockwave continued. “Have you experienced any of the side effects we discussed?”

Breakdown expected Onslaught to answer, but it was another Combaticon who responded. “Nothing of note,” Blast Off said. “Headaches, minor irritation around the spark chamber, that’s all.”

“Excellent,” Shockwave responded. There was another pause, and Breakdown shifted from foot to foot, wondering if he should run, trying to work out what they were doing. Finally, Shockwave spoke again. “You may raise your firewalls. I am pleased to announce that the code fix has been a success. You shouldn’t experience any further problems.”

“Good,” Onslaught said. “When can we start with the others?”

“Not yet,” Shockwave said. “The window of opportunity is open, we do not yet know what time we have available to us.”

Breakdown slunk up to the gap, but all he could see was light. 

“That’s inconvenient,” Onslaught said. 

“An understatement,” Blast Off commented. “How do we proceed?”

“That depends,” Shockwave said, speaking over a methodical clatter as of tools being put away. “The process took almost an orn for you, it may take longer with them. I haven’t had the opportunity to observe their code since your incarceration.”

“Indeed,” Blast Off said, and the chill in his voice made Breakdown shiver. 

“I trust your calculations,” Onslaught said, presumably to Shockwave. “What are our options?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Shockwave replied. “I need to run a simulation.”

“Can we combine?”

Shockwave coughed. “No,” he said. “That would be inadvisable.”

“We will be at a disadvantage,” Blast Off said. 

“It is regrettable,” Shockwave replied. “If the window of opportunity closes with no action taken, we will revisit the timescale.”

“Understood,” Onslaught said. 

Breakdown backed away, walking carefully backwards around the corner before spinning on his heel and scurrying down the corridor. The further he got from the doorway, the more he chose speed over silence, until he was far enough away that he could risk transforming. 

As he gained traction and sped towards Motormaster’s location, he called up his commander’s frequency. It didn’t even beep before Motormaster picked up.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Breakdown?”

“Onslaught’s plotting with Shockwave, you have to raise the alarm!”

“Slow down,” Motormaster ordered. “I want you to find somewhere safe to pull up and transform.”

“But they could be chasing me!”

“They’re not chasing you. Soundwave has cameras in every corridor. Slow down, pull over, transform.”

Breakdown swerved to avoid hitting one of Reflector’s components, and pulled up hard. He reverted to root mode, panting. 

“Now focus on your vents,” Motormaster said. “Start walking at a normal pace, head in my direction.”

“OK… OK, doing that. But Shockwave-”

“Vents first,” Motormaster said. “Your readings are too high.”

Breakdown clenched his fists and ground his teeth, but he managed not to snap. He counted his vents, timing the counting to match his footsteps. The team bond was calm, radiating with the promise of enclosure, safety, warmth. 

“All right,” Motormaster said, “Now talk.”

* * *

Onslaught scanned the corridor. “He’s gone,” he said. “How much did he hear?”

“Too much, no doubt.” Shockwave waited until the door was closed before continuing. “Not that it matters, he believes you cannot combine. The first strike is at twenty-hundred joors; we will be ready, and they will not.” 

“Then everything is as we planned?” Blast Off asked. 

Shockwave’s single eye glowed. “You may combine,” he told them. “There will be some internal conflict, but Onslaught is the command module, he exerts his will and Bruticus must comply. In this context having a second component free of the loyalty programming is merely a safeguard.” 

Blast Off closed the panel on his arm and stood. His leg mounted cannons swivelled, emitting a deep hum. “Outside of that context?” he prompted. 

“You are invaluable,” Onslaught said. “The others would also have been useful.”

“They will play their parts,” Shockwave said. “I believe we have a meeting to attend.”

Onslaught grinned beneath his mask. “We wouldn’t want to be late.”

* * *

Dead End dozed in the afterglow, and Vortex watched him. He couldn’t help but share Dead End’s wish that they could connect. The mech was beautiful, the picture of debauched exhaustion, waxed to perfection. The tip of his cord poked up from its housing, red biolights glimmering, and Vortex bent to kiss him there. Dead End laughed and squirmed sleepily, one hand over his chest, the other balled around the bedding. 

The virus was strong. Swindle didn’t play around, it wouldn’t be gone after one interface, burnt out like a cheap one-cred stim. It would stick around, slowly smouldering, keeping him hot for at least a day, maybe more, transmitting to anyone stupid enough to hook up. 

Dead End smiled sleepily, his cord extending by itself. Vortex teased the tip a little, but not enough to wake him up. Blue light flared beside them, and Vortex gave the Autobot a cursory glance. He was awake, probably terrified, furious, probably thinking up all kinds of ways to get back at them. Vortex would never know, the virus had seen to that. He tested the heat between Cliffjumper’s legs, watching his optics widen and blaze. Maybe the both of them could take him when Dead End was again awake. Onslaught wouldn’t mind a little rough treatment, it wasn’t like he wanted the drone for screwing. 

The team bond opened like a glint of starlight through a space bridge. A moment later, Vortex’s comm flashed. 

“Ons?” Vortex took it on sub-voc, laying down between Cliffjumper and Dead End. “Don’t tell me I’m back on duty.”

“Is Dead End conscious?”

“Nope.” Vortex said. “But you’re on internal comms, he wouldn’t be able to hear you. You should see him though.”

“I _can_ see him,” Onslaught said. “You’re tired, I need you to stay awake.”

“Ugh, really?” Vortex dumped a polishing cloth over Cliffjumper’s face, muting the blue light. 

“It’s an order,” Onslaught said. “You enter the final phase in two hours.”

“What, two hours from _now?_ ” Vortex looked at Dead End. “Are you serious?”

“On my mark,” Onslaught said, and Vortex huffed as his internal chronometer shifted by a fraction of an astrosecond. “Can I trust you to be ready?”

Vortex sighed, and pushed himself off the bunk. “Yeah,” he said, and winced at the force of Onslaught’s disapproval. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “I’m ready.”

“Fuel up,” Onslaught said, and was gone. 

* * *

Breakdown shivered, counting the seconds until Motormaster had to go back on duty. The office door was locked, the monitors temporarily muted. Motormaster held Breakdown close, long after his spark had stopped spinning and his vital signs had eased into the optimal range. 

“Another minute?” Breakdown pleaded, but Motormaster shook his head. 

“Break’s over, I have work to do before the meeting starts.” He pushed Breakdown gently off his lap. “You know what you need to do?”

Breakdown nodded. “We need evidence. Don’t worry, I can do this.”

“I know you can.” Motormaster took his hand, meshing their energy fields. “If they catch you, shake them apart.”

“I can,” Breakdown said. “I will.” It was time to leave, but Motormaster held on for a moment longer. 

“I should have told you this a long time ago,” he said. “You’re the strongest of us. They are no match for you.”

“I’ll kill them all,” Breakdown said. Motormaster released him, and he backed away to the door, his arm tingling. “What about Dead End… the vids.”

“I’m still going to talk to him,” Motormaster said. “I haven’t forgotten.” He got up and unlocked the door. “Keep the bond open,” he said. 

Breakdown nodded. “Always.”

* * *

Dead End watched Vortex from the bunk. More specifically he watched Vortex’s hips as he walked, his spike stirring. “Come back to bed,” he mumbled and yawned, stretching wide enough to knock his arm against Cliffjumper’s shoulder. The Autobot was screaming again, a high wine audible through the sparkbond, punctuated with the occasional run of expletives. Dead End laughed and nuzzled his shoulder. 

“You want anything?” Vortex asked, knocking back a cube of something pink and strong-smelling. 

“You?” Dead End said. He squirmed on his well-polished back, spreading his thighs and dancing his fingertips over the tip of his cord. Having two sparkbonds was the strangest experience. Hot Rod was in recharge, his valve at last empty but for the dribble of fluids seeping slowly out of him. It felt gross, and Dead End stepped back from that side of the bond, then from Cliffjumper too, the screaming fading to a dull background whine. 

“Let me look at you,” Vortex said, heading over with a cup of coolant. 

“You can look at me all you like,” Dead End said. He stretched, arching his back and loving the feeling of his cord reaching full pressure.

“And inside,” Vortex said, laughing as Dead End spread his legs before he uncoupled his chest. He loved Vortex in sparklight, tinged purple with the wash of his vital essence. He let Vortex sit him up and feed him the coolant, and smiled as he stroked his way through Dead End’s chest.

“You can touch it,” he said. “My spark. I gift it to you.”

“Later,” Vortex said, closing him up and kissing the final drops of coolant from his lips. “For now, I just want to look at you.”

“Just look?” Dead End pouted, then gasped as Vortex’s energy field rippled through his sensor net. 

“Maybe not _just_ look,” he said.

* * *

Dead End was a delight. Everything Vortex wanted, he gave, and more. He melted under Vortex’s slow caress and came as intensely as he ever had around his cord. He crept a delightful little predator to Cliffjumper and exposed him, spark and all, exploring as he went. When his spike again extended, he allowed Vortex to guide him into his newest sparkmate, laying Cliffjumper on top of him and showing him how to fix the rhythm from beneath. 

When Vortex nudged his cord in alongside, Dead End’s surprise was a joy. The Autobot was small, and Vortex went slow, keeping half an eye on the time. The virus did its work, and Cliffjumper spread for them without breaking, and shuddered in a virus-forced overload well before the end. When Vortex withdrew, Dead End was panting and filthy, and Vortex shoved the Autobot aside to bury himself once again in the Stunticon.

Dead End’s adoration rang clear in his energy field. His kisses were hungry, his need astounding. Vortex revved his engine, spreading a soft vibration through his frame, and ground into him as deep as he could go. He was keeping this one, there was no question. Dead End was his, and would continue to be his when Onslaught had had his way and all this was over and done with. Dead End didn’t need a team of his own, he had Vortex, and Vortex could teach him everything he needed to know. 

He’d have to be weaned off the spark-bonding, but it had never been a part of Onslaught’s plan, just something that Vortex had taken advantage of. Looking down at Dead End’s loose smile and his glimmering optics, Vortex didn’t think it was an impossible task. 

Although it did make the task at hand more tricky. 

Time progressed, and Vortex drew out their pleasure, delaying overload as long as he could. When it came Dead End looked wrung out, if happy, but his eyes were bright and he was anything but drowsy when he sipped the high grade Vortex brought for him, and asked, “Is it time?”

Vortex nodded. “If you want to recover before your shift.”

“I think that would be sensible,” Dead End said. He set the empty cube on the bunk and fell back. 

“You don’t want to?” Vortex asked. 

Dead End licked his lips. “You do it. You’re so good at this.”

“Just one thing,” Vortex said. “Open up for me, I want to make sure this isn’t going to hurt you.”

That purple light returned with grace, and Vortex vented softly over the surface. Slivers of darkness opened in the corona, vanishing almost as soon as they appeared. But the pulse was even and regular, the glow strong. Vortex felt around the spark casing, then over the inhibitor. The clip had melted completely, fusing itself around a bunch of wires, but the guts of the thing were easy to access, and Vortex shut it off with one simple snip.

Dead End giggled. “Tickles,” he said, and waved his fingers in Vortex’s face. Vortex kissed them one by one, and went over to Cliffjumper. 

He’d make a fine drone, when all was said and done. “Ready?” Vortex asked. 

Dead End smiled wide. “Do it.”

* * *

Motormaster was almost at his meeting when the team bond opened and Dead End appeared whole and gleaming in his spark. He choked in surprise, his engine stalling and his vents coming to a standstill. He leaned against the wall, grateful there was no-one around to see him. Dead End was in Vortex’s room, typical. And he was interfacing, or he had been. His presence was full of it, viscous and cloying. Motormaster’s lip curled, and he forced himself forward. He would deal with Dead End later.

He restarted his vents and blew smoke out of his stacks. Whatever they were doing was vile. Recordings of death and mayhem, sensation of a spark guttering, fading. 

Growling, Motormaster reached the door to the war room. He plugged in his code, and prepared to apologise to Soundwave for his very brief delay. 

But Soundwave wasn’t there. Shockwave stood at the podium arranging datasheets, and the softest of breezes wafted from the direction of the closing door. Motormaster glared at him, then swung around, all his weight behind his fist. Onslaught reeled with the impact, but Blast Off was there with his dual cannons glowing, his pistol aimed. Motormaster went to spring, and doubled up as agony exploded through the bond, a wail of abject terror, a blinding wall of sheer blank whiteness. Dead End was dying, but it wasn’t Dead End, it was through Dead End, and Motormaster roared through the anguish, kicking out and hitting nothing. 

Something connected with his cowl, and Motormaster grasped for his weapon, but Onslaught had his hands, and Blast Off’s cannons were glowing, and somehow there was a hole in his chest and his hands were bleeding, and Shockwave was standing in front of him, gun hand raised.

He fired. 

* * *

Vortex cradled Dead End through the worst of it, his energy field a tide lapping and soothing. Dead End howled and shook and small parts of him kept switching off, but eventually it was over and Cliffjumper was dead, and he was smiling to have known how that felt. 

“Perfect,” Vortex said, kissing his mouth, and Dead End moved weakly in response, parting his lips while his energy field gave a ragged stutter. 

Dead End mumbled tiredly, and Vortex began to calculate exactly what he would need. Nanites, coolant, the right kind of fuel. Medical treatment for the tears in his spark, but maybe those would mend by themselves in time. 

Then Dead End’s smile faded, and his optics flared. “Motormaster?” He gaped, head moving as though he was struggling to look. “Motormaster!”

“It’s all right,” Vortex said, gripping him tighter. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

“He’s in trouble!” Dead End yelled, but it ended with him coughing, his frame wracked while his arms hung limply and his hands clawed at nothing.

Vortex supported his back, holding him upright until the choking subsided. Dead End’s lips moved, his optics glazed. He opened his mouth, and a dribble of pale liquid escaped. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Vortex stated, and laid him on his back on the bunk. He tilted Dead End’s head to the side to drain the oil - he must have ruptured something, although Primus only knew what and when - and opened his chest. “You’re going to be fine, OK? Dead End, answer me.”

Dead End’s optics flickered, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. He began to shiver, his vents whirring as his fans turned up to maximum. 

“Stay with me.” Vortex tugged open his chest, then ran to the closet to fetch a box of tools, and back to the bunk. “Can you hear me? Dead End, blink if you can hear me.” He upended the box over the bed, no idea what he might need. “ _Dead End!_ ”

The Stunticon was shuddering, great wracking shivers that shook him to the bolts. Vortex held him down, trying to stop the movement from jolting his spark. The damn thing had gone into convulsions, more black than violet now, a swirling pit of deepest night opening in the centre. 

“No, frag you, no!” Vortex cut the ties that anchored the dampener. The melted plastic was quick to fracture, then to shatter completely as he flung it against the wall. He went through his supplies. Line clamps, ties, scalpels, magnets; but there was nothing that needed extracting, and no severed lines that he could tie up. Dead End wasn’t losing energon, although he was losing hydraulic fluid, a steady seep from his mouth, and when Vortex looked closely he could see it was only because Dead End had bitten his tongue. 

“Dead End,” he said, tilting his head to look into his optics. “Listen to me. You’re going to be all right, I promise. Do you hear me? You’re going to be fine.”

Dead End blinked once, and his optics failed. Vortex swore, went through his supplies again. Nothing useful, of course there wasn’t. The spark guttered, and Vortex gripped Dead End’s arm hard enough to dent it, but the light rekindled, the dark shrinking to a point the size of his core. Then it began again to swell. 

“You’re mine!” Vortex snapped. “Stay with me, frag you!” But the darkness spread, the fractures growing and dancing, parading their conquest, and Vortex took Dead End’s hand and touched his face and didn’t know what to do. 

The second time his spark guttered, Dead End began again to shake, a violent rattling shiver that Vortex had seen so many times before. “You’re _mine,_ ” he growled, tracing the edge of Dead End’s lips, running his fingers around the edge of the spark casing. “You _can’t_ go.”

The shivering lasted through the second flare of the spark. Grey patches formed on the corona, and Vortex burnt his fingers trying to stub them out. He hardly heard Onslaught’s call to arms, he hardly felt the shock of victory through the team bond, the joyous news that Motormaster was dead. 

The echo of an impact somewhere in the base was nothing next to the roiling doom that threatened to consume Dead End’s spark. 

An alarm sounded, his comm began to flash. Vortex unspooled his cables and plugged himself in. Frag the virus, frag the risk. He disabled Dead End’s firewalls, uncoupling his armour as he went, releasing his own spark. 

“Stay with me,” he hissed, as he forced the bonding protocols online and pressed their sparks together. 

The agony was overwhelming, the sense of loss unimaginable. He ground his denta and willed their coronas to mesh, watching as connections formed and severed, pushing down the dark, replacing it with his own essence. 

“Stay with me!” he demanded, and for a moment Dead End was there beside him, watching, waiting. Then the world turned to white.

* * *

Breakdown ran. 

Motormaster was dead. The fact kept bouncing around him, ready to punch him in the guts or shove a knife through his spark at any second. Motormaster was gone, and Dead End was dying, and he was running through a smoking ruin, through hallways on fire and rooms without walls. He ran past windows whose toughened glass was splinters beneath his feet, past the victims of Autobot shelling and the wounded, and his own superiors who yelled at him to stop, form up, hold the line. 

Breakdown ran through the base towards Wildrider and Drag Strip. He fired as he ran - on Autobots, on shadows, on the vaguest hint of an outline that could have been Onslaught or Shockwave or Blast Off. 

He heard someone yell that Megatron was down. He heard someone scream of Soundwave’s capture. He saw Starscream fight with a viciousness that Breakdown could feel clawing at his own spark, saw him fall and rise up again in a fountain of laserfire, darting for the sky. 

He almost fired on Wildrider, running through the smoke towards him. 

“We need to leave,” Drag Strip said. “Megatron’s dead, they’re all saying it.”

“But Motormaster…” Breakdown swayed. “We have to get Dead End!”

“He’s gone,” Wildrider said, tugging Breakdown back the way he had come. 

“No, no he can’t be gone! He’s dying, we have to save him!”

“It’s too late!” Wildrider yelled. “It’s all too fragging late!” 

“They’re coming.” Drag Strip froze, aiming into the smoke. “We need to leave. Now.”

Breakdown shook his head. “I’m not going. I… I can’t, I…” The shadow loomed, a deep red blur with a red sigil front and centre. Drag Strip fired, and Breakdown revved his engine, and Wildrider pulled them both back. 

The Autobot dived for cover, returning fire after a split second. 

“Engage forcefields,” Drag Strip commanded, as though they hadn’t already. “I’ll lead, Wildrider, you cover the back. We are leaving, _now!_ ” He snarled. “Breakdown, _I said now!_ ”

Breakdown peered through the smoke. The laserfire was nothing; Dead End was an echo in his audials, Motormaster a gulf where his spark should have been. “I’ll kill them all,” he growled, and took a small step forward. 

Wildrider grabbed his arm. “Sure, yes, we will. Later. Not now. It’s me saying this so you know we’re screwed, we are _retreating_.” 

Breakdown shook him off, his engine growling. He was the strongest, Motormaster had told him. He could do this. But the smoke was clearing, the sky opening above him. The stars glittered, a cruel parody of sparks. A bolt caught him in the arm, the impact spinning him as his forcefield took the blow. 

“Now?” Wildrider said, and Breakdown slowly nodded. 

Drag Strip glared, still firing on the Autobot. “Come on!” He backed slowly away, until Wildrider and Breakdown had passed him. “You ready to leave now?” he said to Breakdown, and it was only the ragged tatters of the team bond that told Breakdown how terrified he really was. 

“No,” Breakdown replied. “But I will.” 

They ran until they were clear of the smoke, then drove until the fire and the impacts and the fighting were far behind them. 

“Is anyone following us?” Wildrider said, as Drag Strip opened a gap in the fencing that separated the edge of the base from the ruins of old Cybertron. 

“Probably,” Breakdown said. Drag Strip forced his way through, tugging Wildrider after him. Breakdown lingered, looking back. The storm of war consumed the base; smoke billowed like clouds, firefights flashing like lightning. Motormaster was in there, somewhere, his strong safe arms turned grey, his smile forever erased. Breakdown rubbed his optics and backed away through the fence. He wanted to think he was carrying Motormaster with him, a parcel of memories that would last as long as he did. But Motormaster was the hole in the team bond. He was an absence, and Breakdown thought that he would crumble. 

“This way,” Drag Strip hissed, slapping Breakdown’s forcefield. Breakdown followed him into the ruins, Wildrider at his back. 

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

When Vortex first awoke, Blast Off was by his side. He smiled at the pain in his chest and turned his optics briefly offline.

When he came to, the world had moved. Ancient circular lights dangled overhead, and shapes shifted at the edge of his vision. The pain gave him a moment to think before returning full force, carving out his spark and chewing it up. He clawed at his chest until an odd little drone with a blank white mask came up to him and plugged something into his arm. 

“Can you hear me?” 

Time had passed. A day, an orn, he couldn’t tell. The pain had become an ache, only stabbing if he moved. He looked around, trying to focus. Hadn’t Blast Off been there?

“Vortex, can you hear me?”

“Hmm, yeah sure.” He pushed the cooling blanket down, and tried to get up. 

“No you don’t,” someone said. A young voice, pleasant. Surely not the owner of the very firm hands which pushed him back into the centre of the berth. “Please don’t try to move, you’re not ready.”

“Vortex?” It was Onslaught’s voice, and Onslaught coming at him through the team bond. But it was a while before the teal and orange blur came together in a recognisable shape. 

“Did Blast Off shoot me again?” Vortex peered around. “I feel like slag.”

“He’s awake,” Onslaught announced, apparently to someone Vortex couldn’t see. He peered down into Vortex’s optics. “Do you know what happened?”

Vortex shut off his visual feed, but this time he didn’t drift into recharge. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I remember.” 

“You nearly killed yourself!” Onslaught snapped. “What were you thinking?”

“That’s enough,” the drone came over, and Vortex brought his optics online to see that it wasn’t actually a drone. Not that he could make out what it _was_ ; it appeared to be wearing recycled Autobot armour. “There won’t be any raised voices, is that understood?”

Onslaught grunted a response and the spectre vanished. He seemed to slump, his presence in the team bond a complex knot of intellectual and emotional responses. Good old Onslaught. 

He coughed. “You didn’t respond to my summons.”

Vortex rubbed his face, trying to get his thoughts in line. “The Autobots attacked,” he said. “You called, but I… I was busy.”

“Blast Off told me you were in too deep.” Onslaught spoke softly, his voice hardly carrying. “I should have done more.”

“The frag could you have done?” Vortex sighed. “He died, didn’t he?”

Onslaught nodded. “He was dead when we found you.”

“How long was I out? Where’s Brawl? Where the frag is Swin? Why’s that guy wearing Autobot bits? Did the Autobots win?”

A purple blur in the corner became Shockwave when Vortex focused, and a little of the unease abated. But there was an Autobot on a bunk beside him, all pink and orange and a hateful blue glare. 

“Brawl and Swindle are in stasis,” Onslaught said, “pending the removal of the loyalty programming. They’re going to be fine.”

Vortex forced his visor to reboot. “Pending the what? I… I don’t have it any more. How the hell did you get it out?” He shook his head, collapsing back onto the foam of the pillow. “What the frag happened?”

Onslaught went to reply, but evidently thought better of it as Shockwave approached. 

“You are in protective custody,” he said. “This is a temporary measure, until such time as the treaty is formally ratified.”

Vortex just stared. 

Shockwave stared back. “Do not think that this is a punitive measure, it is anything but.” He looked up a moment before the distant door opened. Vortex refreshed his vision, gaining an expansive aura of pink, a wide span of shoulders, a pair of cold Autobot eyes. At least these ones weren’t hateful.

“Elita Prime,” Shockwave said with a brief nod.

“I won’t impose for long,” the new Prime said. She glanced at Onslaught, then at Vortex. “I don’t know what you did, and I don’t want to know, but you caused the distraction we needed, and for that you have my thanks.” She pursed her lips, her optics narrowed. “We are working towards a unified Cybertron. There’s a place for all of us here, even you, provided you work with us towards the common good.”

Onslaught nodded, and Elita turned to Shockwave, a hand resting a moment on his gun arm. Then she was gone. 

“You will remain here until your spark has stabilised,” Shockwave said, as though that moment of intimacy, of implication, had never happened. “Once the treaty is signed, your life is your own. You will work within Cybertronian law or face the consequences. I have a download prepared in case you’ve forgotten what the rule of law entails.”

“Ha ha,” Vortex said. “I get it, behave or I’m scrap metal.” He vented air through the side of his helm. “Do we get to read the treaty?”

“I helped to write it,” Onslaught said. “Considering Starscream’s coercive tactics, Elita has consented to view us as a separate faction, forced into servitude under Megatron.”

“Good,” Vortex said, “‘cause that _is_ actually what happened.” He tried to focus on the ceiling. “No more loyalty programming,” he said. “No more Megatron.” No more Dead End, lost in the backlash of two broken bonds so close together, crashing in a spark already damaged. He winced. “What do we do now?”

“You need to rest,” Onslaught said. “We have work to do, and I need you with me.”

Vortex nodded, feeling the ripples through his spark. Something of Dead End was still there, the memories clinging like barbs. Impressions melded, a whirl of sensor echoes, and it was as though Dead End was dying all over again. 

“Are you with me?” Onslaught said quietly, his hand so close that Vortex could feel the edge of his energy field. 

Dead End’s energy field was present too, wrapped around his spark. Vortex sank into it, looking up and meeting Onslaught’s gaze. “I’m with you,” he said, as the sensor echos gifted him the press of Dead End’s lips. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it to the end of this story, thankyou so much for reading. I hope you've enjoyed it, even though it's meant to be pretty damn horrible. And thankyou to everyone who left commented and left kudos, it always makes my day<3


End file.
